na 


2 


v 


&. 


THE  GKEAT  HOUSE 


•NIV,  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS   ANrtFIF* 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF 

THE  NEW  RECTOR 

THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE 

A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE 

THE  MAN  IN  BLACK 

UNDER  THE  RED  ROBE 

MY  LADY  ROTHA 

MEMOIRS  OF  A  MINISTER  OF  FRANCE 

THE  RED   COCKADE 

SHREWSBURY 

THE  CASTLE  INN 

SOPHIA 

COUNT   HANNIBAL 

IN  KINGS'   BYWAYS 

THE  LONG  NIGHT 

THE  ABBESS  OF  VLAYE 

STARVECROW  FARM 

CHIPPINGE 

LAID  UP  IN  LAVENDER 

THE  WILD  GEESE 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE 


BY 

STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 

Author  of  "The  Castle  Inn,"  "Chippinge," 
"A  Gentleman  of  France,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
LONGMANS,    GREEN  AND   CO. 

FOURTH    AVENUE    AND    80™    STREET 
1919 


COPYRIGHT.  1919 

BY 
STANLEY   J.  WEYMAN 


CONTENTS     s 

CHAPTEE  PAGE 

I.  THE  HOTEL  LAMBEBT — UPSTAIRS        ....  1 

II.  THE  HOTEL  LAMBEBT — DOWNSTAIRS  ....  5 

III.  THE  LAWYEB  ABBOAD 16 

IV.  HOMEWARD  BOUND 23 

V.  THE  LONDON  PACKET 30 

VI.  FIELD  AND  FOBQE 40 

VII.  MB.  JOHN  AUDLEY 60 

VIII.  THE  GATEHOUSE 67 

IX.  OLD  THINGS 69 

X.  NEW  THINGS 81 

XI.  TACT  AND  TEMPER 93 

XII.  THE  YEW  WALK 101 

XIII.  PETER  PAUPEB 112 

XIV.  THE  MANCHESTER  MEN 124 

XV.  STRANGE  BEDFELLOWS 138 

XVI.  THE  GREAT  HOUSE  AT  BEAUDELAYS    ....  145 

XVII.  To  THE  RESCUE 155 

XVIII.  MASKS  AND  FACES 166 

XIX.  THE  CORN  LAW  CRISIS 175 

XX.  PETEB'S  RETUBN 184 

XXI.  TOFT  AT  THE  BUTTEBFLIES 197 

XXII.  MY  LOBD  SPEAKS 207 

XXIII.  BLORE  UNDEB  WEAVES 219 

XXIV.  AN  AGENT  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL  230 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

XXV.  MABY  is  LONELY .238 

XXVI.   MISSING 248 

XXVII.   A  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  HALL 259 

XXVIII.  THE  NEWS  FROM  RIDDSLEY 270 

XXIX.   THE  AUDLEY  BIBLE 277 

XXX.  A  FRIEND  IN  NEED 286 

XXXI.   BEN  BOSHAM 296 

XXXII.   MABY  MAKES  A  DISCOVEBY 304 

XXXIII.  THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE    .       .       .       .316 

XXXIV.  BY  THE  CANAL 331 

XXXV.   MY  LOBD  SPEAKS  Our 341 

XXXVI.   THE  RIDDSLEY  ELECTION 351 

XXXVII.    A  TUBN  OF  THE  WHEEL 367 

XXXVIII.   TOFT'S  LITTLE  SURPRISE 375 

XXXIX.   THE  DEED  OF  RENUNCIATION 385 

XL.  "  LET  Us  MAKE  OTHERS  THANKFUL  "  .                  394 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT — UPSTAIRS 

ON  an  evening  in  March  in  the  'forties  of  last  century  a 
girl  looked  down  on  the  Seine  from  an  attic  window  on  the 
He  St.  Louis.  The  room  behind  her — or  beside  her,  for 
she  sat  on  the  window-ledge,  with  her  back  against  one 
side  of  the  opening  and  her  feet  against  the  other — was 
long,  whitewashed  from  floor  to  ceiling,  lighted  by  five 
gaunt  windows,  and  as  cold  to  the  eye  as  charity  to  the 
recipient.  Along  each  side  of  the  chamber  ran  ten  pallet 
beds.  A  black  door  broke  the  wall  at  one  end,  and  above 
the  door  hung  a  crucifix.  A  painting  of  a  Station  of  the 
Cross  adorned  the  wall  at  the  other  end.  Beyond  this  pic- 
ture the  room  had  no  ornament;  it  is  almost  true  to  say 
that  beyond  what  has  been  named  it  had  no  furniture. 
One  bed — the  bed  beside  the  window  at  which  the  girl 
sat — was  screened  by  a  thin  curtain  which  did  not  reach 
the  floor.  This  was  her  bed. 

But  in  early  spring  no  window  in  Paris  looked  on  a 
scene  more  cheerful  than  this  window;  which  as  from  an 
eyrie  commanded  a  shining  reach  of  the  Seine  bordered 
by  the  lawns  and  foliage  of  the  King's  Garden,  and  closed 
by  the  graceful  arches  of  the  Bridge  of  Austerlitz.  On 
the  water  boats  shot  to  and  fro.  The  quays  were  gay  with 
the  red  trousers  of  soldiers  and  the  coquettish  caps  of 
8oubrettesa  with  students  in  strange  cloaks,  and  the  twin- 


2  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

kling  wheels  of  yellow  cabriolets.  The  first  swallows  were 
hawking  hither  and  thither  above  the  water,  and  a  pleas- 
ant hum  rose  from  the  Boulevard  Bourdon. 

Yet  the  girl  sighed.  For  it  was  her  birthday,  she  was 
twenty  this  twenty-fifth  of  March,  and  there  was  not  a 
soul  in  the  world  to  know  this  and  to  wish  her  joy.  A 
life  of  dependence,  toned  to  the  key  of  the  whitewashed 
room  and  the  thin  pallets,  lay  before  her;  and  though  she 
had  good  reason  to  be  thankful  for  the  safety  which  de- 
pendence bought,  still  she  was  only  twenty,  and  spring- 
time, viewed  from  prison  windows,  beckons  to  its  cousin, 
youth.  She  saw  family  groups  walking  the  quays,  and 
father,  mother,  children,  all,  seen  from  a  distance,  were 
happy.  She  saw  lovers  loitering  in  the  garden  or  pacing 
to  and  fro,  and  romance  walked  with  every  one  of  them; 
none  came  late,  or  fell  to  words.  She  sighed  more  deeply; 
and  on  the  sound  the.door  opened. 

"Hola!"  cried  a  shrill  voice,  speaking  in  French,  fluent, 
but  oddly»accented.  "  Who  is  here  ?  The  Princess  desires 
that  the  English  Mademoiselle  will  descend  this  evening." 

"  Very  good,"  the  girl  in  the  window  replied  pleasantly. 
"  At  the  same  hour,  Josephine  ?  " 

"  Why  not,  Mademoiselle  ?  "  A  trim  maid,  with  a  plain 
face  and  the  faultless  figure  of  a  Pole,  came  a  few  steps 
into  the  room.  "  But  you  are  alone  ?  " 

'e  The  children  are  walking.     I  stayed  at  home." 

"  To  be  alone  ?  As  if  I  did  not  understand  that !  To 
be  alone — it  is  the  luxury  of  the  rich." 

The  girl  nodded.  "  None  but  a  Pole  would  have 
thought  of  that,"  she  said. 

'  Ah,  the  crafty  English  Miss !  "  the  maid  retorted. 
"How  she  flatters!  Perhaps  she  needs  a  touch  of  the 
tongs  to-night?  Or  the  loan  of  a  pair  of  red-heeled  shoes, 
worn  no  more  than  thrice  by  the  Princess — and  with  the 
black  which  is  convenable  for  Mademoiselle,  oh,  so  neat! 
Of  the  ancien  regime,  absolutely ! " 


THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT— UPSTAIRS  3 

The  other  laughed.  "  The  ancien  regime,  Josephine — 
and  this ! "  she  replied,  with  a  gesture  that  embraced  the 
room,  the  pallets,  her  own  bed.  "  A  curled  head — and 
this!  You  are  truly  a  cabbage " 

"  But  Mademoiselle  descends !  " 

"A  cabbage  of — foolishness!" 

"  Ah,  well,  if  I  descended,  you  would  see,"  the  maid 
retorted.  "I  am  but  the  Princess's  second  maid,  and  I 
know  nothing !  But  if  I  descended  it  would  not  be  to  this 
dormitory  I  should  return !  Nor  to  the  tartines !  Nor  to 
the  daughters  of  Poland !  Trust  me  for  that — and  I  know 
but  my  prayers.  While  Mademoiselle,  she  is  an  artist's 
daughter." 

"  There  spoke  the  Pole  again,"  the  girl  struck  in  with 
a  smile. 

"  The  English  Miss  knows  how  to  flatter,"  Josephine 
laughed.  "  That  is  one  for  the  touch  of  the  tongs,"  she 
continued,  ticking  them  off  on  her  fingers.  "  And  one 
for  the  red-heeled  shoes.  And — but  no  more!  Let  me 
begone  before  I  am  bankrupt !  "  She  turned  about  with  a 
flirt  of  her  short  petticoats,  but  paused  and  looked  back, 
with  her  hand  on  the  door.  "  None  the  less,  mark  you 
well,  Mademoiselle,  from  the  whitewash  to  the  ceiling  of 
Lebrun,  from  the  dortoir  of  the  Jeunes  Filles  to  the  Gallery 
of  Hercules,  there  are  but  twenty  stairs,  and  easy,  oh,  so 
easy  to  descend!  If  Mademoiselle  instead  of  flattering 
Josephine,  the  Cracovienne,  flattered  some  pretty  gentle- 
man— who  knows  ?  Not  I !  I  know  but  my  prayers !  " 
And  with  a  light  laugh  the  maid  clapped  to  the  door  and 
was  gone. 

The  girl  in  the  window  had  not  throughout  the  parley 
changed  her  pose  or  moved  more  than  her  head,  and  this 
was  characteristic  of  her.  For  even  in  her  playfulness  there 
was  gravity,  and  a  measure  of  stillness.  Now,  left  alone, 
she  dropped  her  feet  to  the  floor,  turned,  and  knelt  on  the 
Bill  with  her  brow  pressed  against  the  glass.  The  sun  had 


4  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

set,  mists  were  rising  from  the  river,  the  quays  were  gray 
and  cold.  Here  and  there  a  lamp  began  to  shine  through 
the  twilight.  But  the  girl's  thoughts  were  no  longer  on  the 
scene  beneath  her  eyes. 

"There  goes  the  third  who  has  been  good  to  me,"  she 
pondered.  "  First  the  Polish  lodger  who  lived  on  the  floor 
below,  and  saved  me  from  that  woman.  Then  the  Prin- 
cess's daughter.  Now  Josephine.  There  are  still  kind 
people  in  the  world — God  grant  that  I  may  not  forget  it! 
But  how  much  better  to  give  than  to  take,  to  be  strong 
than  to  be  weak,  to  be  the  mistress  and  not  the  puppet  of 
fortune!  How  much  better — and,  were  I  a  man,  how 
easy !  " 

But  on  that  there  came  into  her  remembrance  one  to 
whom  it  had  not  been  easy,  one  who  had  signally  failed  to 
master  fortune,  or  to  grapple  with  circumstances.  "  Poor 
father ! "  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT — DOWNSTAIRS 

WHEN  ladies  were  at  home  to  their  intimates  in  the  Paris 
of  the  'forties,  they  seated  their  guests  about  large  round 
tables  with  a  view  to  that  common  exchange  of  wit  and 
fancy  which  is  the  French  ideal.  The  mode  crossed  to 
England,  and  in  many  houses  these  round  tables,  fallen 
to  the  uses  of  the  dining-room  or  the  nursery,  may  still  be 
seen.  But  when  the  Princess  Czartoriski  entertained  in  the 
Hotel  Lambert,  under  the  ceiling  painted  by  Lebrun,  which 
had  looked  down  on  the  arm-chair  of  Madame  de  Chatelet 
and  the  tabouret  of  Voltaire,  she  was,  as  became  a  Pole,  a 
law  to  herself.  In  that  beautiful  room,  softly  lit  by  wax 
candles,  her  guests  were  free  to  follow  their  bent,  to  fall 
into  groups,  or  to  admire  at  their  ease  the  Watteaus  and 
Bouchers  which  the  Princess's  father-in-law,  old  Prince 
Adam,  had  restored  to  their  native  panels. 

Thanks  to  his  taste  and  under  her  rule  the  gallery  of 
Hercules  presented  on  this  evening  a  scene  not  unworthy 
of  its  past.  The  silks  and  satins  of  the  old  regime  were 
indeed  replaced  by  the  high-shouldered  coats,  the  stocks, 
the  pins  and  velvet  vests  of  the  dandies ;  and  Thiers  beam- 
ing through  his  glasses,  or  Lamartine,  though  beauty, 
melted  by  the  woes  of  Poland,  hung  upon  his  lips,  might 
have  been  thought  by  some  unequal  to  the  dead.  But  they 
were  now  what  those  had  been ;  and  the  women  peacocked  it 
as  of  old.  At  any  rate  the  effect  was  good,  and  a  guest  who 
came  late,  and  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold  to  observe 

5 


6  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

the  scene,  thought  that  he  had  never  before  done  the  room 
full  justice.  Presently  the  Princess  saw  him  and  he  went 
forward.  The  man  who  was  talking  to  her  made  his  bow, 
and  she  pointed  with  her  fan  to  the  vacant  place.  "  Felici- 
tations, my  lord,"  she  said.  She  held  out  her  gloved 
hand. 

"  A  thousands  thanks/'  he  said,  as  he  bent  over  it.  "  But 
on  what,  Princess  ?  " 

"  On  the  success  of  a  friend.  On  what  we  have  all 
seen  in  the  Journal.  Is  it  not  true  that  you  have  won  your 
suit?" 

"  I  won,  yes."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  But  what, 
Madame?  A  bare  title,  an  empty  rent-roll." 

"  For  shame !  "  she  answered.  "  But  I  suppose  that  this 
is  your  English  phlegm.  Is  it  not  a  thing  to  be  proud  of 
— an  old  title?  That  which  money  cannot  buy  and  the 
wisest  would  fain  wear?  M.  Guizot,  what  would  he  not 
give  to  be  Chien  de  Race  ?  Your  Peel,  also  ?  " 

"  And  your  Thiers  ?  "  he  returned,  with  a  sly  glance  at 
the  little  man  in  the  shining  glasses. 

"  He,  too !  But  he  has  the  passion  of  humanity,  which 
is  a  title  in  itself.  Whereas  you  English,  turning  in  your 
unending  circle,  one  out,  one  in,  one  in,  one  out,  are  but 
playing  a  game — marking  time !  You  have  not  a  desire  to 
go  forward ! " 

"  Surely,  Princess,  you  forget  our  Reform  Bill,  scarce 
ten  years  old." 

"  Which  bought  off  your  cotton  lords  and  your  fat 
bourgeois,  and  left  the  people  without  leaders  and  more 
helpless  than  before.  No,  my  lord,  if  your  Russell — Lord 
John,  do  you  call  him?— had  one  jot  of  M.  Thiers' 
enthusiasm!  Or  your  Peel— but  I  look  for  nothing 
there ! " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  admit,"  he  said,  "  that 
M.  Thiers  has  an  enthusiasm  beyond  the  ordinary." 

"You  do?    Wonderful!" 


THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT— DOWNSTAIRS  7 

"  But,"  with  a  smile,  "  it  is,  I  fancy,  an  enthusiasm  of 
which  the  object  is — M.  Thiers !  " 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried,  fanning  herself  more  quickly.  "  Now 
there  spoke  not  Mr.  Audley,  the  attache — he  had  not  been 
so  imprudent !  But — how  do  you  call  yourself  now  ?  " 

"  On  days  of  ceremony,"  he  replied,  "  Lord  Audley  of 
Beaudelays." 

" There  spoke  my  lord,  unattached!  Oh,  you  English, 
you  have  no  enthusiasm.  You  have  only  traditions.  Poor 
were  Poland  if  her  fate  hung  on  you ! " 

"  There  are  still  bright  spots,"  he  said  slyly.  And  his 
glance  returned  to  the  little  statesman  in  spectacles  on 
whom  the  Princess  rested  the  hopes  of  Poland. 

"  No ! "  she  cried  vividly.  "  Don't  say  it  again  or  I 
shall  be  displeased.  Turn  your  eyes  elsewhere.  There  is 
one  here  about  whom  I  wish  to  consult  you.  Do  you 
see  the  tall  girl  in  black  who  is  engaged  with  the 
miniatures  ?  " 

"  I  saw  her  some  time  ago." 

"  I  suppose  so.  You  are  a  man.  I  dare  say  you  would 
call  her  handsome  ?  " 

"I  think  it  possible,  were  she  not  in  this  company. 
What  of  her,  Princess  ?  " 

"  Do  you  notice  anything  beyond  her  looks  ?  " 

"  The  picture  is  plain — for  the  frame  in  which  I  see  her. 
Is  she  one  of  the  staff  of  your  school  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  with  an  air " 

"  Certainly — an  air !  "    He  nodded. 

"  Well,  she  is  a  countrywoman  of  yours  and  has  a  his- 
tory. Her  father,  a  journalist,  artist,  no  matter  what,  came 
to  live  in  Paris  years  ago.  He  went  down,  down,  always 
down ;  six  months  ago  he  died.  There  was  enough  to  bury 
him,  no  more.  She  says,  I  don't  know" — the  Princess 
indicated  doubt  with  a  movement  of  her  fan — "  that  she 
wrote  to  friends  in  England.  Perhaps  she  did  not  write; 
how  do  I  know  ?  She  was  at  the  last  sou,  the  street  before 


8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

her,  a  hag  of  a  concierge  behind,  and  withal — as  you  see 
her." 

"Not  wearing  that  dress,  I  presume?"  he  said  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"  No.  She  had  passed  everything  to  the  Mont  de  Piete ; 
she  had  what  she  stood  up  in — yet  herself !  Then  a  Polish 
family  on  the  floor  below,  to  whom  my  daughter  carried 
alms,  told  Cecile  of  her.  They  pitied  her,  spoke  well  of 
her,  she  had  done — no  matter  what  for  them — perhaps 
nothing.  Probably  nothing.  But  Cecile  ascended,  saw  her, 
became  enamoured,  enragee!  You  know  Cecile — for  her 
all  that  wears  feathers  is  of  the  angels!  Nothing  would 
do  but  she  must  bring  her  here  and  set  her  to  teach  English 
to  the  daughters  during  her  own  absence." 

"  The  Princess  is  away  ?  " 

"  For  four  weeks.  But  in  three  days  she  returns,  and 
you  see  where  I  am.  How  do  I  know  who  this  is?  She 
may  be  this,  or  that.  If  she  were  French,  if  she  were 
Polish,  I  should  know  I  But  she  is  English  and  of  a  calm, 
a  reticence — ah !  " 

"  And  of  a  pride  too,"  he  replied  thoughtfully,  "  if  I 
mistake  not.  Yet  it  is  a  good  face,  Princess." 

She  fluttered  her  fan.  "  It  is  a  handsome  one.  For  a 
man  that  is  the  same." 

"With  all  this  you  permit  her  to  appear?" 

"To  be  of  use.  And  a  little  that  she  may  be  seen  by 
some  English  friend,  who  may  tell  me." 

"Shall  I  talk  to  her?" 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good.  Learn,  if  you  please,  what 
she  is." 

'•'  Your  wishes  are  law,"  he  rejoined.  "  Will  you  present 
me?" 

"  It  is  not  necessary,"  the  Princess  answered.  She  beck- 
oned to  a  stout  gentleman  who  wore  whiskers  trimmed  a 
la  mode  du  Roi,  and  had  laurel  leaves  on  his  coat  collar. 
"  A  thousand  thanks." 


THE  HdTEL  LAMBERT— DOWNSTAIRS  g 

He  lingered  a  moment  to  take  part  in  the  Princess's 
reception  of  the  Academician.  Then  he  joined  a  group 
about  old  Prince  Adam  Czartoriski,  who  was  describing 
a  recent  visit  to  Cracow,  that  last  morsel  of  free  Poland, 
soon  to  pass  into  the  maw  of  Austria.  A  little  apart,  the 
girl  in  black  bent  over  the  case  of  miniatures,  comparing 
some  with  a  list,  and  polishing  others  with  a  square  of 
silk.  Presently  he  found  himself  beside  her.  Their  eyes 
met. 

"  I  am  told,"  he  said,  bowing,  "  that  you  are  my  country- 
woman. The  Princess  thought  that  I  might  be  of  use  to 
you." 

The  girl  had  read  his  errand  before  he  spoke  and  a  shade 
flitted  across  her  face.  She  knew,  only  too  well,  that  her 
hold  on  this  rock  of  safety  to  which  chance  had  lifted  her 
— out  of  a  gulf  of  peril  and  misery  of  which  she  trembled 
to  think — was  of  the  slightest.  Early,  almost  from  the 
first,  she  had  discovered  that  the  Princess's  benevolence 
found  vent  rather  in  schemes  for  the  good  of  many  than 
in  tenderness  for  one.  But  hitherto  she  had  relied  on  the 
daughter's  affection,  and  a  little  on  her  own  usefulness. 
Then,  too,  she  was  young  and  hopeful,  and  the  depths  from 
which  she  had  escaped  were  such  that  she  could  not  believe 
that  Providence  would  return  her  to  them. 

But  she  was  quick-witted,  and  his  opening  frightened 
her.  She  guessed  at  once  that  she  was  not  to  be  allowed 
to  await  Cecile's  return,  that  her  fate  hung  on  what  this 
Englishman,  so  big  and  bland  and  forceful,  reported  of 
her. 

She  braced  herself  to  meet  the  danger.  "  I  am  obliged 
to  the  Princess,"  she  said.  "  But  my  ties  with  England 
are  slight.  I  came  to  France  with  my  father  when  I  was 
ten  years  old." 

"I  think  you  lost  him  recently?"  He  found  his  task 
less  easy  than  it  should  have  been. 

"He  died  six  months  ago,"  she  replied,  regarding  him 


io  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

gravely.  "  His  illness  left  me  without  means.  I  was 
penniless,  when  the  young  Princess  befriended  me  and  gave 
me  a  respite  here.  I  am  no  part  of  this,"  with  a  glance  at 
the  salon  and  the  groups  about  them.  "  I  teach  upstairs. 
I  am  thankful  for  the  privilege  of  doing  so." 

"  The  Princess  told  me  as  much,"  he  said  frankly. 
"  She  thought  that,  being  English,  I  might  advise  you 
better  than  she  could;  that  possibly  I  might  put  you  in 
touch  with  your  relations  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Or  your  friends  ?    You  must  have  friends  ?  " 

"  Doubtless  my  father  had — once,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "  But  as  his  means  diminished,  he  saw  less  and  less 
of  those  who  had  known  him.  For  the  last  two  years  I 
do  not  think  that  he  saw  an  Englishman  at  home.  Before 
that  time  I  was  in  a  convent  school,  and  I  do  not  know." 

"You  are  a  Eoman  Catholic,  then?  " 

"No.  And  for  that  reason — and  for  another,  that  my 
account  was  not  paid" — her  color  rose  painfully  to  her 
face — "  I  could  not  apply  to  the  Sisters.  I  am  very  frank," 
she  added,  her  lip  trembling. 

"  And  I  encroach,"  he  answered,  bowing.  "  Forgive  me ! 
Your  father  was  an  artist,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  He  drew  for  an  Atelier  de  Porcelaine — for  the  journals 
when  he  could.  But  he  was  not  very  successful,"  she  con- 
tinued reluctantly.  "The  china  factory  which  had  em- 
ployed him  since  he  came  to  Paris,  failed.  When  I  re- 
turned from  school  he  was  alone  and  poor,  living  in  the 
little  street  in  the  Quartier,  where  he  died." 

"But  forgive  me,  you  must  have  some  relations  in 
England?" 

'  Only  one  of  whom  I  know,"  she  replied.  "  My  father's 
brother.  My  father  had  quarrelled  with  him— bitterly,  I 
fear ;  but  when  he  was  dying  he  bade  me  write  to  my  uncle 
and  tell  him  how  we  were  placed.  I  did  so.  No  answer 
came.  Then  after  my  father's  death  I  wrote  again.  I 


THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT— DOWNSTAIRS  n 

told  my  uncle  that  I  was  alone,  that  I  was  without  money, 
that  in  a  short  time  I  should  be  homeless,  that  if  I  could 
return  to  England  I  could  live  by  teaching  French.  He 
did  not  reply.  I  could  do  no  more." 

"  That  was  outrageous,"  he  answered,  flushing  darkly. 
Though  well  under  thirty  he  was  a  tall  man  and  portly, 
with  one  of  those  large  faces  that  easily  become  injected. 
"  Do  you  know — is  your  uncle  also  in  narrow  circum- 
stances ?  " 

"  I  know  no  more  than  his  name,"  she  said.  "  My  father 
never  spoke  of  him.  They  had  quarrelled.  Indeed,  my 
father  spoke  little  of  his  past." 

"  But  when  you  did  not  hear  from  your  uncle,  did  you 
not  tell  your  father  ?  " 

"  It  could  do  no  good,"  she  said.    "  And  he  was  dying." 

He  was  not  sentimental,  this  big  man,  whose  entrance 
into  a  room  carried  with  it  a  sense  of  power.  Nor  was  he 
one  to  be  lightly  moved,  but  her  simplicity  and  the  picture 
her  words  drew  for  him  of  the  daughter  and  the  dying  man 
touched  him.  Already  his  mind  was  made  up  that  the 
Czartoriski  should  not  turn  her  adrift  for  lack  of  a  word. 
Aloud,  "  The  Princess  did  not  tell  me  your  name,"  he  said. 
"May  I  know  it?" 

"  Audley,"  she  said.    "  Mary  Audley." 

He  stared  at  her.  She  supposed  that  he  had  not  caught 
the  name.  She  repeated  it. 

"  Audley  ?    Do  you  really  mean  that  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  surprised  in  her  turn.  "Is  it 
so  uncommon  a  name  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied  slowly.  "  No,  but  it  is  a  coincidence. 
The  Princess  did  not  tell  me  that  your  name  was  Audley." 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "  I  doubt  if  she  knows,"  she 
said.  "  To  her  I  am  only  '  the  English  girl.' " 

"  And  your  father  was  an  artist,  resident  in  Paris  ?  And 
his  name  ?  " 

"  Peter  Audley." 


12  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

He  nodded.  "Peter  Audley,"  he  repeated.  His  eyes 
looked  through  her  at  something  far  away.  His  lips  were 
more  firmly  set.  His  face  was  grave.  "  Peter  Audley,"  he 
repeated  softly.  "  An  artist  resident  in  Paris !  " 

"  But  did  you  know  him  ?  "  she  cried. 

He  brought  his  thoughts  and  his  eyes  back  to  her.  "  No, 
I  did  not  know  him,"  he  said.  "  But  I  have  heard  of  him." 
And  again  it  was  plain  that  his  thoughts  took  wing. 
"  John  Audley's  brother,  the  artist !  "  he  muttered. 

In  her  impatience  she  could  have  taken  him  by  the  sleeve 
and  shaken  him.  "  Then  you  do  know  John  Audley  ?  " 
she  said.  "  My  uncle  ?  " 

Again  he  brought  himself  back  with  an  effort.  "  A 
thousand  pardons !  "  he  said.  "  You  see  the  Princess  did 
not  tell  me  that  you  were  an  Audley.  Yes,  I  know  John 
Audley — of  the  Gatehouse.  I  suppose  it  was  to  him  you 
wrote?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  he  did  not  reply?  " 

She  nodded. 

He  laughed,  as  at  something  whimsical.  It  was  not  a 
kindly  laugh,  it  jarred  a  little  on  his  listener.  But  the 
next  moment  his  face  softened,  he  smiled  at  her,  and  the 
smile  of  such  a  man  had  its  importance,  for  in  repose  his 
eyes  were  hard.  It  was  clear  to  her  that  he  was  a  man  of 
position,  that  he  belonged  of  right  to  this  keen  polished 
world  at  which  she  was  stealing  a  glance.  His  air  was  dis- 
tinguished, and  his  dress,  though  quiet,  struck  the  last  note 
of  fashion. 

"  But  I  am  keeping  you  in  suspense,"  he  said.  "  I  must 
tell  you,  Miss  Audley,  why  it  surprised  me  to  learn  your 
name.  Because  I,  too,  am  an  Audley." 

"  You !  "  she  cried. 

''  Yes,  I,"  he  replied.  «  What  is  more,  I  am  akin  to  you. 
The  kinship  is  remote,  but  it  happens  that  your  father's 
name,  in  its  place  in  a  pedigree,  has  been  familiar  to  me 


THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT— DOWNSTAIRS  13 

of  late,  and  I  could  set  down  the  precise  degree  of  cousin- 
ship  in  which  you  stand  to  me.  I  think  your  father  was 
my  fourth  cousin." 

She  colored  charmingly.  "  Is  it  possible  ? "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  It  is  a  fact,  proved  indeed,  recently,  in  a  court  of  law," 
he  answered  lightly.  "Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  we  have 
that  warrant  for  a  conversation  which  I  can  see  that  the 
Princess  thinks  long.  After  this  she  will  expect  to  hear 
the  whole  of  your  history ." 

"  I  fear  that  she  may  be  displeased,"  the  girl  said,  winc- 
ing a  little.  "  You  have  been  very  kind " 

"  Who  should  be  kind,"  he  replied,  "  if  not  the  head  of 
your  family?  But  have  no  fear,  I  will  deal  with  the 
Princess.  I  shall  be  able  to  satisfy  her,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  And  you  " — she  looked  at  him  with  appeal  in  her  eyes 
— "  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  who  you  are  ?  " 

"  I  am  Lord  Audley.  To  distinguish  me  from  another  of 
the  same  name,  I  am  called  Audley  of  Beaudelays." 

"  Of  Beaudelays  ?  "  she  repeated.  He  thought  her  face, 
her  whole  bearing,  singularly  composed  in  view  of  his  an- 
nouncement. "Beaudelays?"  she  repeated  thoughtfully. 
"I  have  heard  the  name  more  than  once.  Perhaps  from 
my  father." 

"  It  were  odd  if  you  had  not,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  name 
of  my  house,  and  your  uncle,  John  Audley,  lives  within  a 
mile  of  it." 

"  Oh,"  she  said.  The  name  of  the  uncle  who  had  ignored 
her  appeals  fell  on  her  like  a  cold  douche. 

"  I  will  not  say  more  now,"  Lord  Audley  continued. 
"But  you  shall  hear  from  me.  To-morrow  I  quit  Paris 
for  three  or  four  days,  but  when  I  return  have  no  fear. 
You  may  leave  the  matter  in  my  hands  in  full  confidence 
that  I  shall  not  fail — my  cousin." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  she  laid  hers  in  it.  She 
looked  him  frankly  in  the  face.  "  Thank  you,"  she  Baid. 


I4  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"I  little  thought  when  I  descended  this  evening  that  I 
should  meet  a  kinsman." 

"  And  a  friend,"  he  answered,  holding  her  hand  a  little 
longer  than  was  needful. 

"  And  a  friend/'  she  repeated.  "  But  there — I  must  go 
now.  I  should  have  disappeared  ten  minutes  ago.  This 
is  my  way."  She  inclined  her  head,  and  turning  from  him. 
she  pushed  open  a  small  door  masked  by  a  picture.  She 
passed  at  once  into  a  dark  corridor,  and  threading  its 
windings  gained  the  great  staircase. 

As  she  flitted  upwards  from  floor  to  floor,  skirting  a  long 
procession  of  shadowy  forms,  and  now  ogled  by  a  Leda 
whose  only  veil  was  the  dusk,  now  threatened  by  the  tusks 
of  the  great  boar  at  bay,  she  was  not  conscious  of  thought 
or  surprise.  It  was  not  until  she  had  lighted  her  taper 
outside  the  dormitory  door,  and,  passing  between  the  rows 
of  sleeping  children,  had  gained  her  screened  corner,  that 
she  found  it  possible  to  think.  Then  she  set  the  light  in 
her  tiny  washing-basin — such  was  the  rule — and  seated 
herself  on  her  bed.  For  some  minutes  she  stared  before 
her,  motionless  and  unwinking,  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
knees,  her  mind  at  work. 

Was  it  true,  or  a  dream?  Had  this  really  happened  to 
her  since  she  had  viewed  herself  in  the  blurred  mirror, 
had  set  a  curl  right  and,  satisfied,  had  turned  to  go  down? 
The  danger  and  the  delivery  from  it,  the  fear  and  the 
friend  in  need?  Or  was  it  a  Cinderella's  treat,  which  no 
fairy  godmother  would  recall  to  her,  with  which  no  lost 
slipper  would  connect  her  ?  She  could  almost  believe  this. 
For  no  Cinderella,  in  the  ashes  of  the  hearth,  could  have 
seemed  more  remote  from  the  gay  ball-room  than  she 
crouching  on  her  thin  mattress,  with  the  breathing  of  the 
children  in  her  ears,  from  the  luxury  of  the  famous  salon. 

Or,  if  it  was  true,  if  it  had  happened,  would  anything 
come  of  it?  Would  Lord  Audley  remember  her?  Or 
would  he  think  no  more  of  her,  ignoring  to-morrow  the 


THE  HOTEL  LAMBERT— DOWNSTAIRS  15 

poor  relation  whom  it  had  been  the  whim  of  the  moment 
to  own  ?  That  would  be  cruel !  That  would  be  base !  But 
if  Mary  had  fallen  in  with  some  good  people  since  her 
father's  death,  she  had  also  met  many  callous,  and  a  few 
cruel  people.  He  might  be  one.  And  then,  how  strange 
it  was  that  her  father  had  never  named  this  great  kinsman, 
never  referred  to  him,  never  even,  when  dying,  disclosed 
his  name ! 

The  light  wavered  in  the  draught  that  stole  through  the 
bald,  undraped  window.  A  child  whimpered  in  its  sleep, 
awoke,  began  to  sob.  It  was  the  youngest  of  the  daughters 
of  Poland.  The  girl  rose,  and  going  on  tip-toe  to  the  child, 
bent  over  it,  kissed  it,  warmed  it  in  her  bosom,  soothed  it. 
Presently  the  little  waif  slept  again,  and  Mary  Audley 
began  to  make  ready  for  bed. 

But  so  much  turned  for  her  on  what  had  happened,  so 
much  hung  in  the  balance,  that  it  was  not  unnatural  that 
as  she  let  down  her  hair  and  plaited  it  in  two  long  tails  for 
the  night,  she  should  see  her  new  kinsman's  face  in  the 
mirror.  Nor  strange  that  as  she  lay  sleepless  and  thought- 
ridden  in  her  bed  the  same  face  should  present  itself  anew 
relieved  against  the  background  of  darkness* 


CHAPTEK  III 

THE  LAWYER  ABROAD 

HALF  an  hour  later  Lord  Audley  paused  in  the  hall  at 
Meurice's,  and  having  given  his  cloak  and  hat  to  a  servant 
went  thoughtfully  up  the  wide  staircase.  He  opened  the 
door  of  a  room  on  the  first  floor.  A  stout  man  with  a 
bald  head,  who  had  been  for  some  time  yawning  over  the 
dying  fire,  rose  to  his  feet  and  remained  standing. 

Audley  nodded.  "Hallo,  Stubbs!"  he  said  carelessly, 
"  not  in  bed  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,"  the  other  answered.  "  I  waited  to  learn 
if  your  lordship  had  any  orders  for  England." 

"  Well,  sit  down  now.  I've  something  to  tell  you."  My 
lord  stooped  as  he  spoke  and  warmed  his  hands  at  the 
embers;  then  rising,  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  hearth. 
The  stout  man  sat  forward  on  his  chair  with  an  air  of 
deference.  His  double  chin  rested  on  the  ample  folds  of  a 
soft  white  stock  secured  by  a  gold  pin  in  the  shape  of  a 
wheat-sheaf.  He  wore  black  knee-breeches  and  stockings, 
and  his  dress,  though  plain,  bore  the  stamp  of  neatness  and 
prosperity. 

For  a  minute  or  two  Audley  continued  to  look  thought- 
fully before  him.  At  length,  "May  I  take  it  that  this 
claim  is  really  at  an  end  now?  "  he  said.  "  Is  the  decision 
final,  I  mean  ?  " 

"Unless  new  evidence  crops  up,"  Stubbs  answered — he 
was  a  lawyer — "the  decision  is  certainly  final.  With  your 
lordship's  signature  to  the  papers  I  brought  over " 

"  But  the  claimant  might  try  again?  " 

"Mr.  John  Audley  might  do  anything,"  Stubbs  re- 

16 


THE  LAWYER  ABROAD  17 

turned.  "I  believe  him  to  be  mad  upon  the  point,  and 
therefore  capable  of  much.  But  he  could  only  move  on  new 
evidence  of  the  most  cogent  nature.  I  do  not  believe  that 
such  evidence  exists." 

His  employer  weighed  this  for  some  time.  At  length, 
"  Then  if  you  were  in  my  place,"  he  said,  "  you  would  not 
be  tempted  to  hedge  ?  " 

"  To  hedge  ?  "  the  lawyer  exclaimed,  as  if  he  had  never 
heard  the  word  before.  "  I  am  afraid  I  don't  under- 
stand/' 

"I  will  explain.  But  first,  tell  me  this.  If  anything 
happens  to  me  before  I  have  a  child,  John  Audley  succeeds 
to  the  peerage  ?  That  is  clear  ?  " 

"Certainly!  Mr.  John  Audley,  the  claimant,  is  also 
your  heir-at-law." 

"  To  title  and  estates — such  as  they  are?  " 

"  To  both,  my  lord." 

"Then  follow  me  another  step,  Stubbs.  Failing  John 
Audley,  who  is  the  next  heir  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Peter  Audley,"  Stubbs  replied,  "  his  only  brother, 
would  succeed,  if  he  were  alive.  But  it  is  common  ground 
that  he  is  dead.  I  knew  Mr.  Peter,  and,  if  I  may  say  it  of 
an  Audley,  my  lord,  a  more  shiftless,  weak,  improvident 
gentleman  never  lived.  And  obstinate  as  the  devil!  He 
married  into  trade,  and  Mr.  John  never  forgave  it — never 
forgave  it,  my  lord.  Never  spoke  of  his  brother  or  to  his 
brother  from  that  time.  It  was  before  the  Eeform  Bill," 
the  lawyer  continued  with  a  sigh.  "There  were  no  rail- 
ways then  and  things  were  different.  Dear,  dear,  how  the 
world  changes!  Mr.  Peter  must  have  gone  abroad  ten 
years  ago,  but  until  he  was  mentioned  in  the  suit  I  don't 
think  that  I  had  heard  his  name  ten  times  in  as  many 
years.  And  he  an  Audley ! " 

"He  had  a  child?" 

"  Only  one,  a  daughter." 

"  Would  she  come  in  after  Mr.  John  ?  " 


i8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  she  would — if  living." 

"  I've  been  talking  to  her  this  evening." 

"  Ah !  "  The  lawyer  was  not  so  simple  as  he  seemed, 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  he  had  foreseen  the  denouement. 
"  Ah !  "  he  repeated,  thoughtfully  rubbing  his  plump  calf. 
"I  see,  my  lord.  Mr.  Peter  Audley's  daughter?  Really! 
And  if  I  may  venture  to  ask,  what  is  she  like?  " 

Audley  paused  before  he  answered.  Then,  "  If  you  have 
painted  the  father  aright,  Stubbs,  I  should  say  that  she 
was  his  opposite  in  all  but  his  obstinacy.  A  calm  and  self- 
reliant  young  woman,  if  I  am  any  judge." 

"  And  handsome  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  a  look  of  breeding.  At  the  same  time  she  is 
penniless  and  dependent,  teaching  English  in  a  kind  of 
charity  school,  cheek  by  jowl  with  a  princess ! " 

"  God  bless  my  soul ! "  cried  the  lawyer,  astonished  at 
last.  "  A  princess !  " 

"  Who  is  a  good  creature  as  women  go,  but  as  likely  as 
not  to  send  her  adrift  to-morrow." 

"  Tut-tut-tut !  "  muttered  the  other. 

"However,  I'll  tell  you  the  story,"  Audley  concluded. 
And  he  did  so. 

When  he  had  done,  "Well,"  Stubbs  exclaimed,  "for  a 
coincidence " 

"  Ah,  there,"  the  young  man  broke  in,  "  I  fancy,  all's 
not  said.  I  take  it  the  Princess  noted  the  name,  but  was 
too  polite  to  question  me.  Anyway,  the  girl  is  there.  She 
is  dependent,  friendless;  attractive,  and  well-bred.  For  a 
moment  it  did  occur  to  me — she  is  John  Audley's  heiress — 

that  I  might  make  all  safe  by "  His  voice  dropped. 

His  last  words  were  inaudible. 

"  The  chance  is  so  very  remote,"  said  the  lawyer,  aware 
that  he  was  on  delicate  ground,  and  that  the  other  was 
rather  following  out  his  own  thoughts  than  consulting  him. 

"  It  is.  The  idea  crossed  my  mind  only  for  a  moment 
—of  course  it's  absurd  for  a  man  as  poor  as  I  am.  There 


THE  LAWYER  ABROAD  19 

is  hardly  a  poorer  peer  out  of  Ireland — you  know  that. 
Fourteenth  baron  without  a  roof  to  my  house  or  a  pane  of 
glass  in  my  windows!  And  a  rent-roll  when  all  is  told 
of " 

"  A  little  short  of  three  thousand,"  the  lawyer  muttered. 

"  Two  thousand  five  hundred,  by  God,  and  not  a  penny 
more !  If  any  man  ought  to  marry  money,  I  am  that  man, 
Stubbs ! » 

Mr.  Stubbs,  staring  at  the  fire  with  a  hand  on  each  knee, 
assented  respectfully.  "  I've  always  hoped  that  you  would, 
my  lord,"  he  said,  "  though  I've  not  ventured  to  say  it." 

"  Yes !  Well — putting  that  aside,"  the  other  resumed, 
"  what  is  to  be  done  about  her  ?  I've  been  thinking  it  over, 
and  I  fancy  that  I've  hit  on  the  right  line.  John  Audley's 
given  me  trouble  enough.  I'll  give  him  some.  I'll  make 
him  provide  for  her,  d — n  him,  or  I  don't  know  my  man ! " 

"  I'd  like  to  know,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  ventured  thought- 
fully, "why  he  didn't  answer  her  letters.  He  hated  her 
father,  but  it  is  not  like  Mr.  John  to  let  the  young  lady 
drift.  He's  crazy  about  the  family,  and  she  is  his  next 
heir.  He's  a  lonely  man,  too,  and  there  is  room  at  the 
Gatehouse." 

Audley  paused,  half-way  across  the  room.  "I  wish  we 
had  never  leased  the  Gatehouse  to  him ! " 

"  It's  not  everybody's  house,  my  lord.  It's  lonely 
and " 

"  It's  too  near  Beaudelays !  " 

"  If  your  lordship  were  living  at  the  Great  House,  quite 
so,"  the  lawyer  agreed.  "  But,  as  it  is,  the  rent  is  useful, 
and  the  lease  was  made  before  our  time,  so  that  we  have  no 
choice." 

"I  shall  always  believe  that  he  had  a  reason  for  going 
there !  " 

"  He  had  an  idea  that  it  strengthened  his  claim,"  the 
lawyer  said  indulgently.  "  Nothing  beyond  that,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  increase  his  family  by 


20  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

a  niece !  "  the  other  replied.  "  He  shall  have  the  girl 
whether  he  likes  it  or  not.  Take  a  pen,  man,  and  sit  down. 
He's  spoiled  my  breakfast  many  a  time  with  his  confounded 
Writs  of  Error,  or  whatever  you  call  them,  and  for  once 
I'll  be  even  with  him.  Say — yes,  Stubbs,  say  this : 

"  *  I  am  directed  by  Lord  Audley  to  inform  you  that  a 
young  lady,  believed  to  be  a  daughter  of  the  late  Mr. 
Peter  Audley,  and  recently  living  in  poverty  in  an  ob- 
scure ' — yes,  Stubbs,  say  obscure — '  part  of  Paris,  has  been 
rescued  by  the  benevolence  of  a  Polish  lady.  For  the 
present  she  is  in  the  lady's  house  in  a  menial  capacity,  and 
is  dependent  on  her  charity.  Lord  Audley  is  informed  that 
the  young  lady  made  application  to  you  without  result,  but 
this  report  his  lordship  discredits.  Still,  he  feels  himself 
concerned;  and  if  those  to  whom  she  naturally  looks  de- 
cline to  aid  her,  it  is  his  lordship's  intention  to  make  such 
provision  as  may  enable  her  to  live  respectably.  I  am  to 
inform  you  that  Miss  Audley's  address  is  the  Hotel  Lam- 
bert, He  St.  Louis,  Paris.  Letters  should  be  addressed 
"  Care  of  the  Housekeeper."  ' " 

"  He  won't  like  the  last  touch ! "  the  young  man  con- 
tinued, with  a  quiet  chuckle.  "  If  that  does  not  touch  him 
on  the  raw,  I'll  yield  up  the  title  to-morrow.  And  now, 
Stubbs,  good-night." 

But  Stubbs  did  not  take  the  hint.  "  I  want  to  say  one 
word,  my  lord,  about  the  borough — about  Riddsley,"  he 
said.  "  We  put  in  Mr.  Mottisfont  at  the  last  election,  your 
lordship's  interest  just  tipping  the  scale.  We  think,  there- 
fore, that  a  word  from  you  may  set  right  what  is  going 
wrong/' 

"What  is  it?" 

'•'  There's  a  strong  feeling,"  the  lawyer  answered,  his  face 
serious,  "  that  the  party  is  not  being  led  aright.  And  that 
Mr.  Mottisfont,  who  is  old " 

"  Is  willing  to  go  with  the  party,  eh,  Stubbs  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,  with  the  party  leaders.    Which  is  a  dif- 


21 

ferent  thing.  Sir  Eobert  Peel — the  land  put  him  in,  but, 
d — n  me,  my  lord  " — the  lawyer's  manner  lost  much  of  its 
deference  and  he  spoke  bluntly  and  strongly — "  it  looks  as 
if  he  were  going  to  put  the  land  out!  An  income-tax  in 
peace  time,  we've  taken  that.  And  less  protection  for  the 
farmer,  very  good — if  it  must  be.  But  all  this  taking  off 
of  duties,  this  letting  in  of  Canadian  corn — I  tell  you,  my 
lord,  there's  an  ugly  feeling  abroad!  There  are  a  good 
many  in  Eiddsley  say  that  he  is  going  to  repeal  the  Corn 
Laws  altogether;  that  he's  sold  us  to  the  League,  and 
won't  be  long  before  he  delivers  us ! " 

The  big  man  sitting  back  in  his  chair  smiled.  "It 
seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  travelling  rather  fast 
and  rather  far,  Stubbs !  " 

"  That's  just  what  we  fear  Sir  Eobert  is  doing ! "  the 
lawyer  retorted  smartly,  the  other's  rank  forgotten.  "  And 
you  may  take  it  from  me  the  borough  won't  stand  it,  my 
lord,  and  the  sooner  Mr.  Mottisfont  has  a  hint  the  better. 
If  he  follows  Peel  too  far,  the  bottom  will  fall  out  of  his 
seat.  There's  no  Corn  Law  leaguer  will  ever  sit  for  Eidds- 
ley!" 

"  With  your  help,  anyway,  Stubbs,"  my  lord  said  with  a 
smile.  The  lawyer's  excitement  amused  him. 

"  No,  my  lord !  Never  with  my  help !  I  believe  that  on 
the  landed  interest  rests  the  stability  of  the  country!  It 
was  the  landed  interest  that  supported  Pitt  and  beat  Bony, 
and  brought  us  through  the  long  war.  It  was  the  landed 
interest  that  kept  us  from  revolution  in  the  dark  days  after 
the  war.  And  now  because  the  men  that  turn  cotton  and 
iron  and  clay  into  money  by  the  help  of  the  devil's  breath 
— because  they  want  to  pay  lower  wages " 

"  The  ark  of  the  covenant  is  to  be  overthrown,  eh?  "  the 
young  man  laughed.  "  Why,  to  listen  to  you,  Stubbs,  one 
would  think  that  you  were  the  largest  landowner  in  the 
county ! " 

"No,  my  lord,"  the  lawyer  answered.     "But  it's  the 


22  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

landowners  have  made  me  what  I  am.  And  it's  the  land- 
owners and  the  farmers  that  Riddsley  lives  by  and  is  going 
to  stand  by!  And  the  sooner  Mr.  Mottisfont  knows  that 
the  better.  He  was  elected  as  a  Tory,  and  a  Tory  he  must 
stop,  whether  Sir  Robert  turns  his  coat  or  not! " 

"  You  want  me  to  speak  to  Mottisfont  ?  " 

"  We  do,  my  lord.  Just  a  word.  I  was  at  the  Ordinary 
last  fair  day,  and  there  was  nothing  else  talked  of.  Free 
Canadian  corn  was  too  like  free  French  corn  and  free 
Belgian  corn  for  Stafford  wits  to  see  much  difference.  And 
Peel  is  too  like  repeal,  my  lord.  We  are  beginning  to  see 
that." 

Audley  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The  party  is  satis- 
fied/' he  said.  "  And  Mottisfont  ?  I  can't  drive  the  man." 

"  No,  but  a  word  from  you " 

"Well,  I'll  think  about  it.  But  I  fancy  you're  over- 
running the  scent." 

"  Then  the  line  is  not  straight ! "  the  lawyer  retorted 
shrewdly.  "However,  if  I  have  been  too  warm,  I  beg 
pardon,  my  lord." 

"  I'll  bear  it  in  mind,"  Audley  answered.  "  Very  good. 
And  now,  good-night,  Stubbs.  Don't  forget  to  send  the 
letter  to  John  Audley  as  soon  as  you  reach  London." 

Stubbs  replied  that  he  would,  and  took  his  leave.  He 
had  said  his  say  on  the  borough  question,  lord  or  no  lord; 
which  to  a  Briton — and  he  was  a  typical  Briton — was  a 
satisfaction. 

But  half  an  hour  later,  when  he  had  drawn  his  night- 
cap down  to  his  ears  and  stood,  the  extinguisher  in  his 
hand,  he  paused.  "  He's  a  sober  hand  for  a  young  man," 
he  thought,  "  a  very  sober  hand.  I  warrant  he  will  never 
run  his  ship  on  the  rocks  for  lack  of  a  good  look-out ! " 


CHAPTER  IV 

HOMEWARD  BOUND 

IN  the  corner  of  the  light  diligence,  seating  six  inside, 
which  had  brought  her  from  Montreal!,  Mary  Audley  leant 
forward,  looking  out  through  the  dingy  panes  for  the  wind- 
mills of  Calais.  Josephine  slept  in  the  corner  facing  her, 
as  she  had  slept  for  two  hours  past.  Their  compamons,  a 
French  shopkeeper  and  her  child,  and  an  English  bagman, 
sighed  and  fidgeted,  as  travellers  had  cause  to  sigh  and 
fidget  in  days  when  he  was  lucky  who  covered  the  distance 
from  Paris  to  Calais  in  twenty-five  hours.  The  coach 
rumbled  on.  The  sun  had  set,  a  small  rain  was  falling. 
The  fading  light  tinged  the  plain  of  the  Pas  de  Calais  with 
a  melancholy  which  little  by  little  dyed  the  girl's  thoughts. 

She  was  on  her  way  to  her  own  country,  to  those  on 
whom  she  might  be  dependent  without  shame.  And  com- 
mon sense,  of  which  she  had  a  large  share,  told  her  that  she 
had  cause,  great  cause  to  be  thankful.  But  the  flush  of 
relief,  to  which  the  opening  prospect  had  given  rise,  was 
ebbing.  The  life  before  her  was  new,  those  amongst 
whom  she  must  lead  that  life  were  strange;  nor  did  the 
cold  phrases  of  her  uncle's  invitation,  which  ignored  both 
her  father  and  the  letters  that  she  had  written,  promise  an 
over-warm  welcome. 

Still,  "  Courage ! "  Mary  murmured  to  herself, 
"  Courage ! "  And  she  recalled  a  saying  which  she  had 
learned  from  the  maid,  "  At  the  worst,  ten  fingers ! " 
Then,  seeing  that  at  last  they  were  entering  the  streets 
of  the  town  and  that  the  weary  journey  was  over — she  had 

93 


24 

left  Paris  the  day  before — she  touched  Josephine.  "We 
are  there,"  she  said. 

The  maid  awoke  with  her  eyes  on  the  bagman,  who  was 
stout.  "  Ah !  "  she  muttered.  "  In  England  they  are  like 
that !  No  wonder  that  they  travel  seeing  that  their  bones 
are  so  padded !  But,  for  me  I  am  one  ache." 

They  jolted  over  the  uneven  pavement,  crossed  a  bridge, 
lumbered  through  streets  scarcely  wider  than  the  swaying 
diligence,  at  last  with  a  great  cracking  of  whips  they 
swerved  to  the  left  and  drew  up  amid  the  babel  of  the 
quay.  In  a  twinkling  they  were  part  of  it.  Porters 
dragged  down,  fought  for,  snatched  up  their  baggage. 
English-speaking  touts  shook  dirty  cards  in  their  faces. 
Tide-waiters  bawled  questions  in  their  ears.  The  postilion, 
the  conductor,  all  the  world  stretched  greedy  palms  under 
their  noses.  Other  travellers  ran  into  them,  and  they  ran 
into  other  travellers.  All  this,  in  the  dusk,  in  the  rain, 
while  the  bell  on  the  deck  overhead  clanged  above  the  roar 
of  the  escaping  steam,  and  a  man  shouted  without  ceasing, 
"Tower  steamer!  Tower  steamer!  Any  more  for  Eng- 
land?" 

Josephine,  after  one  bitter  exchange  of  words  with  a  lad 
who  had  seized  her  handbag,  thrust  her  fingers  into  her 
ears  and  resigned  herself.  Even  Mary  for  a  moment  was 
aghast.  She  was  dragged  this  way  and  that,  she  lost  one 
article  and  recovered  it,  lost  another  and  recovered  that,  she 
lost  her  ticket  and  rescued  it  from  a  man's  hand.  At  last, 
her  baggage  on  board,  she  found  herself  breathless  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder,  with  three  passengers  imploring  her  to 
ascend,  and  six  touts  clinging  to  her  skirts  and  crying  for 
drink-mone}'.  She  had  barely  time  to  make  her  little  gift 
to  the  kind-hearted  maid — who  was  returning  to  Paris  by 
the  night  coach — and  no  time  to  thank  her,  before  they 
were  parted.  Mary  was  pushed  up  the  ladder.  In  a 
moment  she  was  looking  down  from  the  deck  on  the  wet, 
squalid  quay,  the  pale  up-turned  faces,  the  bustling  crowd. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  25 

She  picked  out  the  one  face  which  she  knew,  and  which 
it  pained  her  to  lose.  By  gestures  and  smiles,  with  a  tear 
in  the  eye,  she  tried  to  make  amends  to  Josephine  for  the 
hasty  parting,  the  half-spoken  words.  The  maid  on  her 
side  was  in  tears,  and  after  the  French  fashion  was  proud 
of  them.  So  the  last  minute  came.  The  paddles  were 
already  turning,  the  ship  was  going  slowly  astern,  when  a 
man  pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd.  He  clutched  the 
ladder  as  it  was  unhooked,  and  at  some  risk  and  much  loss 
of  dignity  he  was  bundled  on  board.  There  was  a  lamp 
amidships,  and,  as  he  regained  his  balance,  Mary,  smiling 
in  spite  of  herself,  saw  that  he  was  an  Englishman,  a  man 
about  thirty,  and  plainly  dressed.  Then  in  her  anxiety  to 
see  the  last  of  Josephine  she  crossed  the  deck  as  the  ship 
went  about,  and  she  lost  sight  of  him. 

She  continued  to  look  back  and  to  wave  her  handker- 
chief, until  nothing  remained  but  a  light  or  two  in  a  bank 
of  shadow.  That  was  the  last  she  was  to  see  of  the  land 
which  had  been  her  home  for  ten  years;  and  chilled  and 
lonely  she  turned  about  and  did  what,  had  she  been  an 
older  traveller,  she  would  have  done  before.  She  sought 
the  after-cabin.  Alas,  a  glance  from  the  foot  of  the  com- 
panion was  enough!  Every  place  was  taken,  every  couch 
occupied,  and  the  air,  already  close,  repelled  her.  She 
climbed  to  the  deck  again,  and  was  seeking  some  corner 
where  she  could  sit,  sheltered  from  the  wind  and  rain,  when 
the  captain  saw  her  and  fell  foul  of  her. 

"  Now,  young  lady,"  he  said,  "  no  woman's  allowed  on 
deck  at  night ! " 

"  Oh,  but,"  she  protested,  "  there's  no  room  down- 
stairs ! " 

"  Won't  do,"  he  answered  roughly.  "  Lost  a  woman 
overboard  once,  and  as  much  trouble  about  her  as  about 
all  the  men,  drunk  or  sober,  I've  ever  carried.  All  women 
below,  all  women  below,  is  the  order!  Besides,"  more 
amicably,  as  he  saw  by  a  ray  of  lantern-light  that  she  was 


26  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

young  and  comely,  "it's  wet,  my  dear,  and  going  to  be 
d — d  wet,  and  as  dark  as  "Wapping ! " 

"  But  I've  a  cloak/'  she  petitioned,  "  if  I  sit  quite  still, 
and " 

A  tall  form  loomed  up  at  the  captain's  elbow.  "  This  is 
the  lady  I  am  looking  for,"  the  new-comer  said.  "  It  will 
be  all  right,  Captain  Jones." 

The  captain  turned  sharply.  "  Oh,  my  lord,"  he  said, 
"  I  didn't  know;  but  with  petticoats  and  a  dark  night,  blest 
if  you  know  where  you  are !  I'm  sure  I  beg  the  young 
lady's  pardon.  Quite  right,  my  lord,  quite  right !  "  With 
a  rough  salute  he  went  forward  and  the  darkness  swallowed 
him. 

"  Lord  Audley  ?  "  Mary  said.  She  spoke  quietly,  but  to 
do  so  she  had  to  steady  her  voice. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  I  knew  that  you  were  crossing 
to-night,  and  as  I  had  to  go  over  this  week  I  chose  this 
evening.  I've  reserved  a  cabin  for  you." 

"  Oh,  but,"  she  remonstrated,  "  I  don't  think  you  should 
have  done  that !  I  don't  know  that  I  can " 

"  Afford  it?  "  he  said  coolly.  «  Then— as  it  is  a  matter 
of  some  shillings — your  kinsman  will  presume  to  pay 
for  it." 

It  was  a  small  thing,  and  she  let  it  pass.  "But  who 
told  you,"  she  asked,  "  that  I  was  crossing  to-night  ?  " 

"  The  Princess.  You  don't  feel,  I  suppose,  that  as  you 
are  crossing,  it  was  my  duty  to  stay  in  France  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !  "  she  protested. 

"  But  you  are  not  sure  whether  you  are  more  pleased  or 
more  vexed  ?  Well,  let  me  show  you  where  your  cabin  is — 
it  is  the  size  of  a  milliner's  box,  but  by  morning  you  will 
be  glad  of  it,  and  that  may  turn  the  scale.  Moreover,"  as 
he  led  the  way  across  the  deck,  "  the  steward's  boy,  when 
he  is  not  serving  gin  below,  will  serve  tea  above,  and  at  sea 

tea  is  not  to  be  scorned.  That's  your  number 7.  And 

there  is  the  boy.  Boy ! "  he  called  in  a  voice  that  ensured 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  27 

obedience,  "Tea  and  bread  and  butter  for  this  lady  in 
number  7  in  an  hour.  See  it  is  there,  my  lad !  " 

She  smiled.  "  I  think  the  tea  and  bread  and  butter  may 
turn  the  scale,"  she  said. 

"  Eight,"  he  replied.  "  Then,  as  it  is  only  eight  o'clock, 
why  should  we  not  sit  in  the  shelter  of  this  tarpaulin?  I 
see  that  there  are  two  seats.  They  might  have  been  put 
for  us." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  they  were  ?  "  she  asked  shrewdly. 

"Well,  why  not?" 

She  had  no  reason  to  give — and  the  temptation  was 
great.  Five  minutes  before  she  had  been  the  most  lonely 
creature  in  the  world.  The  parting  from  Josephine,  the 
discomfort  of  the  boat,  the  dark  sea  and  the  darker  horizon, 
the  captain's  rough  words,  had  brought  the  tears  to  her 
eyes.  And  then,  in  a  moment,  to  be  thought  of,  provided 
for,  kindly  entreated,  to  be  lapped  in  attentions  as  in  a 
cloak — in  very  fact,  in  another  second  a  warm  cloak  was 
about  her — who  could  expect  her  to  refuse  this  ?  Moreover, 
he  was  her  kinsman;  probably  she  owed  it  to  him  that  she 
was  here. 

At  any  rate  she  thought  that  it  would  be  prudish  to 
demur,  and  she  took  one  of  the  seats  in  the  lee  of  the 
screen.  Audley  tucked  the  cloak  about  her,  and  took  the 
other.  The  light  of  a  lantern  fell  on  their  faces  and  the 
few  passengers  who  still  tramped  the  windy  deck  could  see 
the  pair,  and  doubtless  envied  him  their  shelter.  "  Are 
you  comfortable?"  he  inquired — but  before  she  could 
answer  he  whistled  softly. 

"What  is  it?"  Mary  asked. 

"  Not  much."    He  laughed  to  himself. 

Then  she  saw  coming  along  the  deck  towards  them  a 
man  who  had  not  found  his  sea-legs.  As  he  approached  he 
took  little  runs,  and  now  brought  up  against  the  rail,  now 
clutched  at  a  stay.  Mary  knew  the  man  again.  "He 
nearly  missed  the  boat,"  she  whispered. 


28  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Did  he  ?  "  her  companion  answered  in  the  same  tone. 
"  Well,  if  he  had  quite  missed  it,  I'd  have  forgiven  him. 
He  is  going  to  be  ill,  I'll  wager !  " 

When  the  man  was  close  to  them  he  reeled,  and  to  save 
himself  he  grasped  the  end  of  their  screen.  His  eyes 
met  theirs.  He  was  past  much  show  of  emotion,  but  his 
voice  rose  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Audley.  Is  that  you  ?  " 

"  It  is.    We  are  in  for  a  rough  night,  I'm  afraid." 

"And — pardon  me,"  the  stranger  hesitated,  peering  at 
them,  "is  that  Miss  Audley  with  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  Mary  said,  much  surprised. 

"  Oh ! " 

"  This  is  Mr.  Basset,"  Audley  explained. 

Mary  stared  at  the  stranger.  The  name  conveyed  noth- 
ing to  her. 

"  I  came  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  speaking  with  difficulty, 
and  now  and  again  casting  a  wild  eye  abroad  ag  the  deck 
heaved  under  him.  "  But  I  expected  to  find  you  at  the  hotel, 
and  I  waited  there  until  I  nearly  missed  the  boat.  Even 
then  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  learn  if  you  were  on  board,  and 
I  came  up  to  see." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  Mary  answered 
politely,  "but  I  am  quite  comfortable,  thank  you.  It  is 
close  below,  and  Lord  Audley  found  this  seat  for  me.  And 
I  have  a  cabin." 

"  Oh  yes !  "  he  answered.  "  I  think  I  will  go  down  then 
if  you — if  you  are  sure  you  want  nothing." 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  Mary  answered  with  decision. 

"  I  think  I— I'll  go,  then.    Good-night !  " 

With  that  he  went,  making  desperate  tacks  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  companion.  Unfortunately  what  he  gained  in 
speed  he  lost  in  dignity,  and  before  he  reached  the  hatch 
Lord  Audley  gave  way  to  laughter. 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  Mary  cried.  "  He  will  hear  you.  And  it 
was  kind  of  him  to  look  for  me  when  he  was  not  well." 

But  Audley  only  laughed  the  more.    "  You  don't  catch 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  29 

the  full  flavor  of  it,"  he  said.  "  He's  come  three  hundred 
miles  to  meet  you,  and  he's  too  ill  to  do  anything  now 
he's  here ! " 

"  Three  hundred  miles  to  meet  me!  "  she  cried  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Every  yard  of  it!  Don't  you  know  who  he  is?  He's 
Peter  Basset,  your  uncle's  nephew  by  marriage,  who  lives 
with  him.  He's  come,  or  rather  your  uncle  has  sent  him, 
all  the  way  from  Stafford  to  meet  you — and  he's  gone  to 
lie  down!  He's  gone  to  lie  down!  There's  a  squire  of 
dames  for  you!  Upon  my  honor,  I  never  knew  anything 
richer ! " 

And  my  lord's  laughter  broke  out  anew. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   LONDON   PACKET 

MARY  laughed  with  him,  but  she  was  not  comfortable. 
What  she  had  seen  of  the  stranger,  a  man  plain  in  feature 
and  ordinary  in  figure,  one  whom  the  eye  would  not  have 
remarked  in  a  crowd,  did  not  especially  commend « him. 
And  certainly  he  had  not  shown  himself  equal  to  a  difficult 
situation.  But  the  effort  he  had  made  to  come  to  her  help 
appealed  to  her  generosity,  and  she  was  not  sure  how  far 
she  formed  a  part  of  the  comedy.  So  her  laughter  was 
from  the  lips  only,  and  brief.  Then,  "My  uncle's 
nephew  ?  "  she  asked  thoughtfully. 

"  His  wife's  nephew.    Your  uncle  married  a  Basset." 
"  But  why  did  he  send  him  to  meet  me  ?  " 
"  For  a  simple  reason — I  should  say  that  he  had  no  one 
else  to  send.    Your  uncle  is  not  a  man  of  many  friends." 
"I  understood  that  some  one  would  meet  the  boat  in 
London,"  she  said.    "  But  I  expected  a  woman." 

"I  fancy  the  woman  would  be  to  seek,"  he  replied. 
"  And  Basset  is  a  kind  of  tame  cat  at  the  Gatehouse.  He 
lives  there  a  part  of  the  year,  though  he  has  an  old  place 
of  his  own  up  the  country.  He's  a  Staffordshire  man 
born  and  bred,  and  I  dare  say  a  good  fellow  in  his  way, 
but  a  dull  dog!  a  dull  dog!  Are  you.  sure  that  the  wind 
does  not  catch  you  ?  " 

She  said  that  she  was  very  comfortable,  and  they  were 
silent  awhile,  listening  to  the  monotonous  slapping  of  a 
rope  against  the  mast  and  the  wash  of  the  waves  as  they 
surged  past  the  beam.  A  single  light  at  the  end  of  the 
breakwater  shone  in  the  darkness  behind  them.  She 

30 


THE  LONDON  PACKET  31 

marked  the  light  grow  smaller  and  more  distant,  and  her 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  convent  school,  to  her  father, 
to  the  third-floor  where  for  a  time  they  had  been  together, 
to  his  care  for  her — feeble  and  inefficient,  to  his  illness. 
And  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat,  her  hands  gripped  one 
another  as  she  strove  to  hide  her  feelings.  In  her  heart 
she  whispered  a  farewell.  She  was  turning  her  back  on 
her  father's  grave.  The  last  tendril  which  bound  her  to  the 
old  life  was  breaking. 

The  light  vanished,  and  gradually  the  girl's  reflections 
sought  a  new  channel.  They  turned  from  the  past  to  the 
present,  and  dwelt  on  the  man  beside  her,  who  had  not 
only  thought  of  her  comfort,  who  had  not  only  saved  her 
from  some  hours  of  loneliness,  but  had  probably  wrought 
this  change  in  her  life.  This  was  the  third  time  only 
that  she  had  seen  him.  Once,  some  days  after  that 
memorable  evening,  he  had  called  at  the  Hotel  Lambert, 
and  her  employer  had  sent  for  her.  He  had  greeted  her 
courteously  in  the  Princess's  presence,  had  asked  her  kindly 
if  she  had  heard  from  England,  and  had  led  her  to  believe 
that  she  would  hear.  And  she  remembered  with  a  blush 
that  the  Princess  had  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a 
smile,  and  afterwards  had  had  another  manner  for  her. 

Meanwhile  the  man  wondered  what  she  was  thinking, 
and  waited  for  her  to  give  him  the  clue.  But  she  was  so 
long  silent  that  his  patience  wore  thin.  It  was  not  for  this, 
it  was  not  to  sit  silent  beside  her,  that  he  had  taken  a  night 
journey  and  secured  these  cosey  seats. 

"Well?"  he  said  at  last. 

She  turned  to  him,  her  eyes  wet  with  tears.  "  It  seems 
so  strange,"  she  murmured,  "to  be  leaving  all  and  going 
into  a  world  in  which  I  know  no  one." 

"  Except  the  head  of  your  family." 

"  Except  you  1  I  suppose  that  I  owe  it  to  you  that  I  am 
here?" 

"I  should  be  happy  if  I  thought  so,"  he  replied,  with 


32 

careful  reticence.  "  But  we  set  a  stone  rolling,  we  do  not 
know  where  it  falls.  You  will  soon  learn — Basset  will  tell 
you,  if  I  don't — that  your  uncle  and  I  are  not  on  good 
terms.  Therefore  it  is  unlikely  that  he  was  moved  by  what 
I  said." 

"But  you  said  something?" 

"  If  I  did,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "  it  was  against  the 
grain — who  likes  to  put  his  finger  between  the  door  and 
the  jamb  ?  And  let  me  caution  you.  Your  uncle  will  not 
suffer  meddling  on  my  part,  still  less  a  reminder  of  it. 
Therefore,  as  you  are  going  to  owe  all  to  him,  you  will  do 
well  to  be  silent  about  me." 

She  was  sure  that  she  owed  all  to  him,  and  she  might 
have  said  so,  but  at  that  moment  the  boat  changed  its 
course  and  the  full  force  of  the  wind  struck  them.  The 
salt  spray  whipped  and  stung  their  faces.  Her  cloak  flew 
out  like  a  balloon,  her  scarf  pennon-wise,  the  tarpaulin 
flapped  like  some  huge  bird.  He  had  to  spring  to  the 
screen,  to  adjust  it  to  the  new  course,  to  secure  and  tuck  in 
her  cloak — and  all  in  haste,  with  exclamations  and  laugh- 
ter, while  Mary,  sharing  the  joy  of  the  struggle,  and  braced 
by  the  sting  of  the  salt  wind,  felt  her  heart  rise.  How 
kind  he  was,  and  how  strong.  How  he  towered  above 
ordinary  men.  How  safe  she  felt  in  his  care. 

When  they  were  settled  anew,  she  asked  him  to  tell  her 
something  about  the  Gatehouse. 

"  It's  a  lonely  place,"  he  said.  "  It  is  quite  out  of  the 
world.  I  don't  know,  indeed,  how  you  will  exist  after  the 
life  you  have  led." 

"The  life  I  have  led!"  she  protested.  "But  that  is 
absurd!  Though  you  saw  me  in  the  Princess's  salon,  you 
know  that  my  life  had  nothing  in  common  with  hers.  I 
was  downstairs  no  more  than  three  or  four  times,  and  then 
merely  to  interpret.  My  life  was  spent  between  white- 
washed walls,  on  bare  floors.  I  slept  in  a  room  with  twenty 
children,  ate  with  forty — onion  soup  and  thick  tartines. 


THE  LONDON  PACKET  33 

The  evening  I  saw  you  I  wore  shoes  which  the  maid  lent 
me.  And  with  all  that  I  was  thankful,  most  thankful,  to 
have  such  a  refuge.  The  great  people  who  met  at  the 
Princess's " 

"  And  who  thought  that  they  were  making  history ! "  he 
laughed.  "  Did  you  know  that  ?  Did  you  know  that  the 
Princess  was  looking  to  them  to  save  the  last  morsel  of 
Poland?" 

"  Xo,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  know.  I  am  very  ignorant. 
But  if  I  were  a  man,  I  should  love  to  do  things  like  that." 

"  I  believe  you  would !  "  he  replied.  "  Well,  there  are 
crusades  in  England.  Only  I  fear  that  you  will  not  be  in 
the  way  of  them." 

"  And  I  am  not  a  princess !  But  tell  me,  please,  what 
are  they?" 

"  You  will  not  be  long  before  you  come  upon  one,"  he 
replied,  a  hint  of  derision  in  his  tone.  "You  will  see  a 
placard  in  the  streets, '  Shall  the  people's  bread  be  taxed? ' 
Not  quite  so  romantic  as  the  independence  of  Poland  ?  But 
I  can  tell  you  that  heads  are  quite  as  likely  to  be  broken 
over  it." 

"  Surely/'  she  said,  "  there  can  be  only  one  answer  to 
that." 

"Just  so,"  he  replied  dryly.  "But  what  is  the  answer? 
The  land  claims  high  prices  that  it  may  thrive;  the  towns 
claim  cheap  bread  that  they  may  live.  Each  says  that 
the  country  depends  upon  it.  '  England  self-supporting ! ' 
says  one.  '  England  the  workshop  of  the  world ! '  says  the 
other." 

"  I  begin  to  see." 

" '  The  land  is  the  strength  of  the  country/  argues  the 
squire.  '  Down  with  monopoly/  cries  the  cotton  lord. 
Then  each  arms  himself  with  a  sword  lately  forged  and 
called  '  Philanthropy/  and  with  that  he  searches  for  chinks 
in  the  other's  armor.  *  See  how  factories  work  the  babes, 
drive  the  women  underground,  ruin  the  race/  shout  the 


34  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

squires.  'Vote  for  the  land  and  starvation  wages/  shout 
the  mill-owners." 

"But  does  no  one  try  to  find  the  answer?"  she  asked 
timidly.  "  Try  to  find  out  what  is  best  for  the  people  ?  " 

"  Ah ! "  he  rejoined,  "  if  by  the  people  you  mean  the 
lower  classes,  they  cry,  '  Give  us  not  bread,  but  votes ! ' 
And  the  squires  say  that  that  is  what  the  traders  who  have 
just  got  votes  don't  mean  to  give  them;  and  so,  to  divert 
their  attention,  dangle  cheap  bread  before  their  noses ! " 

Mary  sighed.  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  give  it  up,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  so  ignorant." 

"Well,"  he  replied  thoughtfully.  "Many  are  puzzled 
which  side  to  take,  and  are  waiting  to  see  how  the  cat 
jumps.  In  the  meantime  every  fence  is  placarded  with 
*  Speed  the  Plough ! '  on  one  side,  and  *  The  Big  Loaf ! ' 
on  the  other.  The  first  man  you  meet  thinks  the  landlord 
a  devourer  of  widows'  houses;  to  the  next  the  mill-owner 
is  an  ogre  grinding  men's  bones  to  make  his  bread.  Even 
at  the  Gatehouse  I  doubt  if  you  will  escape  the  excitement, 
though  there  is  not  a  field  of  wheat  within  a  mile  of  it ! " 

"  To  me  it  is  like  a  new  world,"  she  said. 

"Then,  when  you  are  in  the  new  world,"  he  replied, 
smiling  as  he  rose,  "  do  not  forget  Columbus !  But  here  is 
the  lad  to  tell  you  that  your  tea  is  ready." 

He  repented  when  Mary  had  left  him  that  he  had  not 
made  better  use  of  his  time.  It  had  been  his  purpose  to 
make  such  an  impression  on  the  girl  as  might  be  of  use  in 
the  future,  and  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  devoted  him- 
self more  singly  to  this ;  why  he  had  allowed  minutes  which 
might  have  been  given  to  intimate  subjects  to  be  wasted  in 
a  dry  discussion.  But  there  was  a  quality  in  Mary  that 
did  not  lightly  invite  to  gallantry — a  gravity  and  a  balance 
that,  had  he  looked  closely  into  the  matter,  might  have 
explained  his  laches. 

And  in  fact  he  had  builded  better  than  he  knew,  for 
while  he  reproached  himself,  Mary,  safe  within  the  tiny 


THE  LONDON  PACKET  35 

bathing  machine  which  the  packet  company  called  a  cabin, 
was  giving  much  thought  to  him.  The  dip-candle,  set 
within  a  horn  lantern,  threw  its  light  on  the  one  com- 
fortable object,  the  tea-tray,  seated  beside  which  she  re- 
viewed what  had  happened,  and  found  it  all  interesting; 
his  meeting  with  her,  his  thought  for  her,  the  glimpses  he 
had  given  her  of  things  beyond  the  horizon  of  the  convent 
school,  even  his  diversion  into  politics.  He  was  not  on 
good  terms  with  her  uncle,  and  it  was  unlikely  that  she 
would  see  more  of  him.  But  she  was  sure  that  she  would 
always  remember  his  appearance  on  the  threshold  of  her 
new  life,  that  she  would  always  recall  with  gratitude  this 
crossing  and  the  kindness  which  had  lapped  her  about  and 
saved  her  from  loneliness. 

In  her  eyes  he  figured  as  one  of  the  brilliant  circle  of  the 
Hotel  Lambert.  For  her  he  played  a  part  in  great  move- 
ments and  high  enterprises  such  as  those  which  he  had 
revealed  to  her.  His  light  treatment  of  them,  his  air  of 
detachment,  had,  indeed,  chilled  her  at  times;  but  these 
were  perhaps  natural  in  one  who  viewed  from  above  and 
from  a  distance  the  ills  which  it  was  his  task  to  treat. 
How  ignorant  he  must  think  her !  How  remote  from  the 
plane  on  which  he  lived,  the  standards  by  which  he  judged, 
the  objects  at  which  he  aimed!  Yet  he  had  stooped  to 
explain  things  to  her  and  to  make  them  clear. 

She  spent  an  hour  deep  in  thought,  and,  strange  as  the 
life  of  the  ship  was  to  her,  she  was  deaf  to  the  creaking 
of  the  timbers,  and  the  surge  of  the  waves  as  they  swept 
past  the  beam.  At  intervals  hoarse  orders,  a  rush  of  feet 
across  the  deck,  the  more  regular  tramp  of  rare  passengers, 
caught  her  attention,  only  to  lose  it  as  quickly.  It  was 
late  when  she  roused  herself.  She  saw  that  the  candle  was 
burning  low,  and  she  began  to  make  her  arrangements  for 
the  night. 

Midway  in  them  she  paused,  and  colored,  aware  that 
she  knew  his  tread  from  the  many  that  had  passed.  The 


36  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

footstep  ceased.  A  hand  tapped  at  her  door.  "Yes?" 
she  said. 

"We  shall  be  in  the  river  by  daybreak/'  Audley  an- 
nounced. "I  thought  that  you  might  like  to  come  on 
deck  early.  You  ought  not  to  miss  the  river  from  the  Nore 
to  the  Pool." 

"  Thank  you/'  she  answered. 

"You  shouldn't  miss  it,"  he  persisted.  "Greenwich 
especially ! " 

"  I  shall  be  there/'  she  replied.  "  It  is  very  good  of  you. 
Good-night." 

He  went  away.  After  all,  he  was  the  only  man  on  board 
shod  like  a  gentleman;  it  had  been  odd  if  she  had  not 
known  his  step !  And  for  going  on  deck  early,  why  should 
she  not  ?  Was  she  to  miss  Greenwich  because  Lord  Audley 
went  to  a  good  bootmaker? 

So  when  Peter  Basset,  still  pale  and  qualmish,  came  on 
deck  in  the  early  morning,  a  little  below  the  Pool,  the  first 
person  he  saw  was  the  girl  whom  he  had  come  to  escort. 
She  was  standing  high  above  him  on  the  captain's  bridge, 
her  hands  clasping  the  rail,  her  hair  blown  about  and  shin- 
ing golden  in  the  sunshine.  Lord  Audley's  stately  form 
towered  above  her.  He  was  pointing  out  this  and  that,  and 
they  were  talking  gaily;  and  now  and  again  the  captain 
spoke  to  them,  and  many  were  looking  at  them.  She  did 
not  see  Basset;  he  was  on  the  deck  below,  standing  amid 
the  common  crowd,  and  so  he  was  free  to  look  at  her  as  he 
pleased.  He  might  be  said  not  to  have  seen  her  before,  and 
what  he  saw  now  bewildered,  nay,  staggered  him.  Unwill- 
ingly, and  to  please  his  uncle,  he  had  come  to  meet  a  girl 
of  whom  they  knew  no  more  than  this,  that,  rescued  from 
some  backwater  of  Paris  life,  into  which  a  weak  and  shift- 
less father  had  plunged  her,  she  had  earned  her  living,  if 
she  had  earned  it  at  all,  in  a  dependent  capacity.  He  had 
looked  to  find  her  one  of  two  things;  either  flashy  and 
underbred,  with  every  fault  an  Englishman  might  consider 


THE  LONDON  PACKET  37 

French,  or  a  nice  mixture  of  craft  and  servility.  He  had 
not  been  able  to  decide  which  he  would  prefer. 

Instead  he  saw  a  girl  tall,  slender,  and  slow  of  move- 
ment, with  eyes  set  under  a  fine  width  of  brow  and  grave 
when  they  smiled,  a  chin  fuller  than  perfect  beauty  re- 
quired, a  mouth  a  little  large,  a  perfect  nose.  Auburn 
hair,  thick  and  waving,  drooped  over  each  temple,  and 
framed  a  face  as  calm  as  it  was  fair.  "  Surely  a  pearl 
found  on  a  midden !  "  he  thought.  And  as  the  thought 
passed  through  his  mind,  Mary  looked  down.  Her  eyes 
roved  for  a  moment  over  the  crowded  deck,  where  some,  like 
Basset,  returned  her  gaze  with  interest,  while  others  sought 
their  baggage  or  bawled  for  missing  companions.  He  was 
not  a  man,  it  has  been  said,  to  stand  out  in  a  crowd,  and 
her  eyes  travelled  over  him  without  seeing  him.  Audley 
spoke  to  her,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  she  looked  ashore  again. 
But  the  unheeding  glance  whioh  had  not  deigned  to  know 
him  stung  Basset!  He  dubbed  her,  with  all  her  beauty, 
proud  and  hard.  Still — to  be  such  and  to  have  sprung 
from  such  a  life !  It  was  marvellous. 

He  knew  nothing  of  the  convent  school  with  its  hourly 
discipline  lasting  through  years.  He  did  not  guess  that  the 
obstinacy  which  had  been  weakness  in  the  father  was 
strength  in  the  child.  Much  less  could  he  divine  that  the 
improvidence  of  that  father  had  become  a  beacon,  warning 
the  daughter  off  the  rocks  which  had  been  fatal  to  him! 
Mary  was  no  miracle,  but  neither  was  she  proud  or  hard. 

They  had  passed  Erith,  and  Greenwich  with  its  stately 
pile  and  formal  gardens  glittering  in  the  sunshine  of  an 
April  morning.  The  ripple  of  a  westerly  wind,  meeting 
the  flood,  silvered  the  turbid  surface.  A  hundred  wherries 
skimmed  like  water-flies  hither  and  thither,  long  lines  of 
colliers  fringed  the  wharves,  tall  China  clippers  forged 
slowly  up  under  a  scrap  of  foresail,  dumb  barges  deep 
laden  with  hay  or  Barclay's  Entire,  moved  mysteriously 
with  the  tide.  On  all  sides  hoarse  voices  bawled  orders  or 


38  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

objurgations.  Charmed  with  the  gayety,  the  movement,  the 
color,  Mary  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  the  scene.  The 
sunshine,  the  leap  of  life,  the  pulse  of  spring,  moved  in 
her  blood  and  put  to  flight  the  fears  that  had  weighed  on 
her  at  nightfall.  She  told  herself  with  elation  that  this 
was  England,  this  was  her  native  land,  this  was  her 
home. 

Meanwhile  Audley's  mind  took  another  direction.  He 
reflected  that  in  a  few  minutes  he  must  part  from  the  girl, 
and  must  trust  henceforth  to  the  impression  he  had  made. 
For  some  hours  he  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  Basset, 
but  he  recalled  him  now,  and  he  searched  for  him  in  the 
throng  below.  He  found  him  at  last,  pressed  against  the 
rail  between  a  fat  woman  with  a  basket  and  a  crying  child. 
Their  eyes  met.  My  lord  glanced  away,  but  he  could  not 
refrain  from  a  smile  as  he  pictured  the  poor  affair  the  other 
had  made  of  his  errand.  And  Basset  saw  the  smile  and 
read  its  meaning,  and  though  he  was  not  self-assertive, 
though  he  was,  indeed,  backward  to  a  fault,  anger  ran 
through  his  veins.  To  have  travelled  three  hundred  miles 
in  order  to  meet  this  girl,  to  have  found  her  happy  in 
another's  company,  and  to  have  accepted  the  second  place — 
the  position  had  vexed  him  even  under  the  qualms  of  ill- 
ness. This  morning,  and  since  he  had  seen  her,  it  stirred  in 
him  an  unwonted  resentment.  He  d — d  Audley  under  his 
breath,  disengaged  himself  from  the  basket  which  the  fat 
woman  was  thrusting  into  his  ribs,  lifted  the  child  aside. 
He  escaped  below  to  collect  his  effects. 

But  in  a  short  time  he  recovered  his  temper.  When  the 
boat  began  to  go  about  in  the  crowded  Pool  and  Mary 
reluctantly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  White  Tower, 
darkened  by  the  smoke  and  the  tragedies  of  twenty  genera- 
tions, she  found  him  awaiting  them  at  the  foot  of  the 
ladder.  He  was  still  pale,  and  the  girl's  conscience  smote 
her.  For  many  hours  she  had  not  given  him  a  thought. 
"  I  hope  you  are  better,"  she  said  gently. 


THE  LONDON  PACKET  39 

"  Horrid  thing,  mal  de  mer! "  remarked  my  lord,  with 
a  gleam  of  humor  in  his  eye. 

"  Thank  you,  I  am  quite  right  this  morning,"  Basset 
answered. 

"  You  go  from  Euston  Grove,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes.  The  morning  train  starts  in  a  little  over  an 
hour." 

No  more  was  said,  and  they  went  ashore  together. 
Audley,  an  old  traveller,  and  one  whose  height  and  presence 
gave  weight  to  his  orders,  saw  to  Mary's  safety  in  the 
crowd,  shielded  her  from  touts  and  tide-waiters,  took  the 
upper  hand.  He  watched  the  aproned  porters  disappearing 
with  the  baggage  in  the  direction  of  the  Custom  House, 
and  a  thought  struck  him.  "  I  am  sorry  that  my  servant 
is  not  here,"  he  said.  "  He  would  see  our  things  through 
without  troubling  us."  His  eyes  met  Basset's. 

Basset  disdained  to  refuse.  "  I  will  do  it,"  he  said.  He 
received  the  keys  and  followed  the  baggage. 

Audley  looked  at  Mary  and  laughed.  "  I  think  you'll 
find  him  useful,"  he  said.  "  Takes  a  hint  and  is  not  too 
forward." 

"  For  shame !  "  she  cried.  "  It  is  very  good  of  him  to 
go."  But  she  could  not  refrain  from  a  smile. 

"  Well  trained,"  Audley  continued  in  a  whimsical  tone, 
"  fetches  and  carries,  barks  at  the  name  of  Peel  and  growls^ 
at  the  name  of  Cobden,  gives  up  a  stick  when  required, 
could  be  taught  to  beg — by  the  right  person." 

She  laughed — she  could  not  resist  his  manner.  "  But 
you  are  not  very  kind,"  she  said.  "  Please  to  call  a — 
whatever  we  need.  He  shall  not  do  everything." 

"Everything?"  Lord  Audley  echoed.  "He  should  do 
nothing,"  in  a  lower  tone,  "  if  I  had  my  way." 

Mary  blushed. 


CHAPTER  VI 

FIELD  AND  FORGE 

THE  window  of  the  clumsy  carriage  was  narrow,  but  Mary 
gazed  through  it  as  if  she  could  never  see  enough  of  the 
flying  landscape,  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  ivy-clad  homes 
and  red-roofed  towns  that  passed  in  procession  before  her. 
The  emotions  of  those  who  journeyed  for  the  first  time  on 
a  railway  at  a  speed  four  times  as  great  as  that  of  the 
swiftest  High-flier  that  ever  devoured  the  road  are  for- 
gotten by  this  generation.  But  they  were  vivid.  The  thing 
was  a  miracle.  And  though  by  this  time  men  had  ceased 
to  believe  that  he  who  passed  through  the  air  at  sixty  miles 
an  hour  must  of  necessity  cease  to  breathe,  the  novice  still 
felt  that  he  could  never  tire  of  the  panorama  so  swiftly 
unrolled  before  him. 

And  it  was  not  only  wonder,  it  was  admiration  that  held 
Mary  chained  to  the  window.  Her  infancy  had  been  spent 
in  a  drab  London  street,  her  early  youth  in  the  heart  of  a 
Paris  which  was  still  gloomy  and  mediaeval.  Some  beauti- 
ful things  she  had  seen  on  fete  days,  the  bend  of  the  river 
at  Meudon  or  St.  Germain,  and  once  the  Forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau;  on  Sundays  the  Bois.  But  the  smiling  Eng- 
lish meadows,  the  gray  towers  of  village  churches,  the 
parks  and  lawns  of  manor-houses,  the  canals  with  their 
lines  of  painted  barges,  and  here  and  there  a  gay  packet 
boat — she  drank  in  the  beauty  of  these,  and  more  than  once 
her  eyes  grew  dim.  For  a  time  Basset,  seated  in  the  op- 
posite corner,  did  not  exist  for  her;  while  he,  behind  the 
Morning  Chronicle,  made  his  observations  and  took  note  of 

40 


FIELD  AND  FORGE  41 

her  at  his  leisure.  The  longer  he  looked  the  more  he 
marvelled. 

He  asked  himself  with  amusement  what  John  Audley 
would  think  of  her  when  he,  too,  should  see  her.  He 
anticipated  the  old  man's  surprise  on  finding  her  so  remote 
from  their  preconceived  ideas  of  her.  He  wondered  what 
she  would  think  of  John  Audley. 

And  while  he  pondered,  and  now  scanned  his  paper 
without  reading  it,  and  now  stole  another  glance  at  her, 
he  steeled  himself  against  her.  She  might  not  have  been 
to  blame,  it  might  not  have  been  her  fault;  but,  between 
them,  the  two  on  the  boat  had  put  him  in  his  place  and 
he  could  not  forget  it.  He  had  cut  a  poor  figure,  and  he 
resented  it.  He  foresaw  that  in  the  future  she  would  be 
dependent  on  him  for  society,  and  he  would  be  a  fool  if 
he  then  forgot  the  lesson  he  had  learned.  She  had  a  good 
face,  but  probably  her  up-bringing  had  been  anything  but 
good.  Probably  it  had  taught  her  to  make  the  most  of 
the  moment  and  of  the  man  of  the  moment,  and  he  would 
be  foolish  if  he  let  her  amuse  herself  with  him.  He  had 
seen  in  what  light  she  viewed  him  when  other  game  was 
afoot,  and  he  would  deserve  the  worst  if  he  did  not 
remember  this. 

Presently  an  embankment  cut  off  the  view,  and  she 
withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  window.  In  her  turn  she  took 
the  measure  of  her  companion.  It  seemed  to  her  that  his 
face  was  too  thoughtful*  for  his  years,  and  that  his  figure 
was  insignificant.  The  eye  which  had  accustomed  itself 
to  Lord  Audley's  port  and  air  found  Basset  slight  and 
almost  mean.  She  smiled  as  she  recalled  the  skill  with 
which  my  lord  had  set  him  aside  and  made  use  of 
him. 

Still,  he  was.  a  part  of  the  life  to  which  she  was  hasten- 
ing, and  curiosity  stirred  in  her.  He  was  in  possession,  he 
was  in  close  relations  with  her  uncle,  he  knew  many  things 
which  she  was  anxious  to  know.  Much  of  her  comfort 


42  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

might  depend  on  him.  Presently  she  asked  him  what  her 
uncle  was  like. 

"  You  will  see  for  yourself  in  a  few  hours,"  he  replied, 
his  tone  cold  and  almost  ungracious.  "  Did  not  Lord 
Audley  describe  him  ?  " 

"  No.  And  you  seem,"  with  a  faint  smile,  "  to  be  equally 
on  your  guard,  Mr.  Basset." 

"  Not  at  all/'  he  retorted.  "  But  I  think  it  better  to 
leave  you  to  judge  for  yourself.  I  have  lived  too  near  to 
Mr.  Audley  to — -to  criticise  him." 

She  colored. 

"  Let  me  give  you  one  hint,  however,"  he  continued  in 
the  same  dry  tone ;  "  you  will  be  wise  not  to  mention  Lord 
Audley  to  him.  They  are  not  on  good  terms." 

"  I  am  sorry." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  cannot  be  said  to  be 
unnatural,  after  what  has  happened." 

She  considered  this.  "  What  has  happened  ?  "  she  asked 
after  a  pause. 

"  Well,  the  claim  to  the  peerage,  if  nothing  else " 

"What  claim?"  she  asked.  "Whose  claim?  What 
peerage  ?  I  am  quite  in  the  dark." 

He  stared.  He  did  not  believe  her.  "  Your  uncle's 
claim,"  he  said  curtly.  Then  as  she  still  looked  a  question, 
"  You  must  know,"  he  continued,  "  that  your  uncle  claimed 
the  title  which  Lord  Audley  bears,  and  the  property  which 
goes  with  it.  And  that  the  decision  was  only  given  against 
him  three  months  ago." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  it,"  she  said.  "  I  never  heard  of 
the  claim." 

"Eeally?"  he  replied.  He  hardly  deigned  to  veil  his 
incredulity.  "  Yet  if  your  uncle  had  succeeded  you  were 
the  next  heir." 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you." 

Then  her  face  shook  his  unbelief.     She  turned  slowly 


FIELD  AND  FORGE  43 

and  painfully  red.  "  Is  it  possible  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  are 
not  playing  with  me?  " 

"  Certainly  I  am  not.  Do  you  mean  that  Lord  Audley 
never  told  you  that  ?  Never  told  you  that  you  were  inter- 
ested?" 

"  Never !  He  only  told  me  that  he  was  not  on  good 
terms  with  my  uncle,  and  that  for  that  reason  he  would 
leave  me  to  learn  the  rest  at  the  Gatehouse." 

"  Well,  that  was  right,"  Basset  answered.  "  It  is  as 
well,  since  you  have  to  live  with  Mr.  Audley,  that  you 
should  not  be  prejudiced  against  him." 

"  No  doubt,"  she  said  dryly.  "  But  I  do  not  understand 
why  he  did  not  answer  my  letters." 

"  Did  you  write  to  him  ?  " 

"  Twice."  She  was  going  to  explain  the  circumstances, 
but  she  refrained.  Why  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of  one 
who  seemed  so  cold,  so  distant,  so  indifferent?  - 

"He  cannot  have  had  the  letters,"  Basset  decided  after 
a  pause. 

"  Then  how  did  he  come  to  write  to  me  at  last?  " 

"Lord  Audley  sent  your  address  to  him." 

"  Ah ! "  she  said.  "  I  supposed  so."  With  an  air  of 
finality  she  turned  to  the  window,  and  for  some  time  she 
was  silent.  Her  mind  had  much  upon  which  to  work. 

She  was  silent  for  so  long  that  before  more  was  said 
they  were  running  through  the  outskirts  of  Birmingham, 
and  Mary  awoke  with  a  shock  to  another  and  sadder  side 
of  England.  In  place  of  parks  and  homesteads  she  saw 
the  England  of  the  workers — workers  at  that  time  exploited 
to  the  utmost  in  pursuance  of  a  theory  of  economy  that 
heeded  only  the  wealth  of  nations,  and  placed  on  that 
wealth  the  narrowest  meaning.  They  passed  across  squalid 
streets,  built  in  haste  to  meet  the  needs  of  new  factories, 
under  tall  chimneys  the  smoke  of  which  darkened  the  sky 
without  hindrance,  by  vile  courts,  airless  and  almost  sun- 
leas.  They  looked  down  on  sallow  children  whose  only 


44  THE  GREA  T  HO  USE 

playground  was  the  street  and  whose  only  school-bell  was 
the  whistle  that  summoned  them  at  dawn  to  premature 
toil.  Haggard  women  sat  on  doorsteps  with  puling  babes 
in  their  arms.  Lines  of  men,  whose  pallor  peered  through 
the  grime,  propped  the  walls,  or  gazed  with  apathy  at  the 
train.  For  a  few  minutes  Mary  forgot  not  only  her  own 
hopes  and  fears,  but  the  aloofness  and  even  the  presence  of 
her  companion.  When  they  came  to  a  standstill  in  the 
station,  where  they  had  to  change  on  to  the  Grand  Junc- 
tion Railway,  Basset  had  to  speak  twice  before  she  under- 
stood that  he  wished  her  to  leave  the  carriage. 

"  What  a  dreadful  place !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  it  is  not  beautiful,"  Basset  admitted.  "  One 
does  not  look  for  beauty  in  Birmingham  and  the  Black 
Country." 

He  got  her  some  tea,  and  marshalled  her  carefully  to  the 
upper  line.  But  his  answer  had  jarred  upon  her,  and 
when  they  were  again  seated,  Mary  kept  her  thoughts  to 
herself.  Beyond  Birmingham  their  route  skirted  towns 
rather  than  passed  through  them,  but  she  saw  enough  to 
deepen  the  impression  which  the  lanes  and  alleys  of  that 
place  had  made  upon  her.  The  sun  had  set  and  the  cold 
evening  light  revealed  in  all  their  meanness  the  rows  of 
naked  cottages,  the  heaps  of  slag  and  cinders,  the  starve- 
ling horses  that  stood  with  hanging  heads  on  the  dreary 
lands.  As  darkness  fell,  fires  shone  out  here  and  there, 
and  threw  into  Dantesque  relief  the  dark  forms  of  half- 
naked  men  toiling  with  fury  to  feed  the  flames.  The  change 
which  an  hour  had  made  in  all  she  saw  seemed  appalling 
to  the  girl;  it  filled  her  with  awe  and  sadness.  Here,  so 
near  the  paradise  of  the  country  and  the  plough,  was  the 
Inferno  of  the  town,  the  forge,  the  pit !  Here,  in  place  of 
the  thatched  cottage  and  the  ruddy  faces,  were  squalor  and 
sunken  cheeks  and  misery  and  dearth. 

She  thought  of  the  question  which  Lord  Audley  had 
raised  twenty-four  hours  before,  and  which  he  had  told  her 


FIELD  AND  FORGE  45 

was  racking  the  minds  of  men — should  food  be  taxed? 
And  she  fancied  that  there  was,  there  could  be,  but  one 
answer.  These  toiling  masses,  these  slaves  of  the  hammer 
and  the  pick,  must  be  fed,  and,  surely,  so  fed  that  a  margin, 
however  small,  however  meagre,  might  be  saved  out  of 
which  to  better  their  sordid  lot. 

"  We  call  this  the  Black  Country,"  Basset  explained, 
feeling  the  silence  irksome.  After  all,  she  was  in  his 
charge,  in  a  way  she  was  his  guest.  He  ought  to  amuse 
her. 

"  It  is  well  named/'  she  answered.  "  Is  there  anything 
in  England  worse  than  this  ?  " 

"  Well,  round  Hales  Owen  and  Dudley,"  he  rejoined,  "  it 
may  be  worse.  And  at  Cradley  Heath  it  may  be  rougher. 
More  women  and  children  are  employed  in  the  pits;  and 
where  women  make  chains — well,  it's  pretty  bad." 

She  had  spoken  dryly  to  hide  her  feelings.  He  replied 
in  a  tone  as  matter-of-fact,  through  lack  of  feeling.  For 
this  he  was  not  so  much  to  blame  as  she  fancied,  for  that 
which  horrified  her  was  to  him  an  everyday  matter,  one  of 
the  facts  of  life  with  which  he  had  been  familiar  from 
boyhood.  But  she  did  not  understand  this.  She  judged 
him  and  condemned  him.  She  did  not  speak  again. 

By  and  by,  "  We  shall  be  at  Penkridge  in  twenty  min- 
utes," he  said.  "After  that  a  nine-miles  drive  will  take 
us  to  the  Gatehouse,  and  your  journey  will  be  over.  But 
I  fear  that  you  will  find  the  life  quiet  after  Paris." 

"  I  was  very  quiet  in  Paris." 

"  But  you  were  in  a  large  house." 

"  I  was  at  the  Princess  Czartoriski's." 

"  Of  course.  I  suppose  it  was  there  that  you  met  Lord 
Audley?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  after  that  kind  of  life,  I  am  afraid  that  the 
Gatehouse  will  have  few  charms  for  you.  It  is  very  remote, 
very  lonely." 


46  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

She  cut  him  short  with  impatience,  the  color  rising  to 
her  face.  "  I  thought  you  understood/'  she  said,  "  that  I 
was  in  the  Princess's  house  as  a  governess?  It  was  my 
business  to  take  care  of  a  number  of  children,  to  eat  with 
them,  to  sleep  with  them,  to  see  that  they  washed  their 
hands  and  kept  their  hair  clean.  That  was  my  position, 
Mr.  Basset.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be  misunderstood." 

"But  if  that  were  so,"  he  stammered,  "how  did 
you " 

"  Meet  Lord  Audley,"  she  replied.  "  Very  simply.  Once 
or  twice  the  Princess  ordered  me  to  descend  to  the  salon 
to  interpret.  On  one  of  these  occasions  Lord  Audley  saw 
me  and  learned — who  I  was." 

"  Indeed,"  he  said.  "  I  see."  Perhaps  he  had  had  it 
in  his  mind  to  test  her  and  the  truth  of  Audley's  letter, 
which  nothing  in  her  or  in  my  lord's  conduct  seemed  to 
confirm.  He  did  not  know  if  this  had  been  in  his  mind, 
but  in  any  case  the  result  silenced  him.  She  was  either 
very  honest  or  very  clever.  Many  girls,  he  knew,  would 
have  slurred  over  the  facts,  and  not  a  few  would  have 
boasted  of  the  Princess's  friendship  and  the  Princess's 
society,  and  the  Princess's  hotel,  and  brought  up  her  name 
a  dozen  times  a  day. 

She  is  very  clever,  he  thought,  or  she  is — good.  But 
for  the  moment  he  steeled  himself  against  the  latter 
opinion. 

No  other  travellers  alighted  at  Penkridge,  and  he  went 
away  to  claim  the  baggage,  while  she  waited,  cold  and 
depressed,  on  the  little  platform  which,  lit  by  a  single  oil 
lamp,  looked  down  on  a  dim  churchyard.  Dusk  was  pass- 
ing into  night,  and  the  wind,  sweeping  across  the  flat, 
whipped  her  skirts  and  chilled  her  blood.  Her  courage 
sank.  A  light  or  two  betrayed  the  nearness  of  the  town, 
but  in  every  other  direction  dull  lines  of  willows  or  pale 
stretches  of  water  ran  into  the  night. 

Five  minutes  before  she  had  resented  Basset's  company, 


FIELD  AND  FORGE  47 

now  she  was  glad  to  see  him  return.  He  led  the  way  to  the 
road  in  silence.  "  The  carriage  is  late,"  he  muttered,  but 
even  as  he  spoke  the  quick  tramp  of  a  pair  of  horses  pushed 
to  speed  broke  on  them,  lights  appeared,  a  moment  later  a 
fly  pulled  up  beside  them  and  turned. 

"  You  are  late/'  Basset  said. 

"  There !  "  the  man  replied.  "  Minutes  might  be  guineas 
since  trains  came  in,  dang  'em!  Give  me  the  days  when 
five  minutes  made  neither  man  nor  mouse,  and  gentry  kept 
their  own  time." 

"  Well,  let  us  get  off  now." 

"I  ask  no  better,  Squire.  Please  yourself  and  you'll 
please  me." 

When  they  were  shut  in,  Basset  laughed.  "  Stafford 
manners !  "  he  said.  "  You'll  become  used  to  them ! " 

"  Is  this  my  uncle's  carriage  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  smiling  in  the  darkness.  "  He  does 
not  keep  one." 

She  said  no  more.  Though  she  could  not  see  him,  her 
shoulder  touched  his,  and  his  nearness  and  the  darkness  in 
which  they  sat  troubled  her,  though  she  was  not  timid. 
They  rode  thus  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  trundled  through 
a  narrow  street,  dimly  lit  by  shop  windows;  again  they 
were  in  the  dark  and  the  country.  Presently  the  pace 
dropped  to  a  walk  as  they  began  to  ascend. 

She  fancied,  peering  out  on  her  side,  that  they  were 
winding  up  through  woods.  Branches  swept  the  sides  of 
the  carriage.  They  jolted  into  ruts  and  jolted  out  of 
them.  By  and  by  they  were  clear  of  the  trees  and  the 
road  seemed  to  be  better.  The  moon,  newly  risen,  showed 
her  a  dreary  upland,  bare  and  endless,  here  dotted  with  the 
dark  stumps  of  trees,  there  of  a  deeper  black  as  if  fire  had 
swept  over  it  and  scarred  it.  They  met  no  one,  saw  no 
sign  of  habitation.  To  the  girl,  accustomed  all  her  life  to 
streets  and  towns,  the  place  seemed  infinitely  desolate — a 


48  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

place  of  solitude  and  witches  and  terror  and  midnight 
murder. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  she  asked,  shivering. 

"  This  is  the  Great  Chase,"  he  said.  "  Riddsley,  on  the 
farther  side,  is  our  nearest  town,  but  since  the  railway  was 
opened  we  use  Penkridge  Station." 

His  practical  tone  steadied  her,  but  she  was  tired,  and 
the  loneliness  which  she  had  felt  while  she  waited  on  the 
bleak  platform  weighed  heavily  on  her.  To  what  was  she 
going?  How  would  her  uncle  receive  her?  This  dreary 
landscape,  the  gaunt  signpost  that  looked  like  a  gibbet  and 
might  have  been  one,  the  skeleton  trees  that  raised  bare 
arms  to  heaven,  the  scream  of  a  dying  rabbit,  all  added  to 
the  depression  of  the  moment.  She  was  glad  when  at  last 
the  carriage  stopped  at  a  gate.  Basset  alighted  and  opened 
the  gate.  He  stepped  in  again,  they  went  on.  There  were 
now  shadowy  trees  about  them,  sparsely  set.  They  jolted 
unevenly  over  turf. 

"  Are  we  there  ?  "  she  asked,  a  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"  Very  nearly,"  he  said.  "  Another  mile  and  we  shall 
be  there.  This  is  Beaudelays  Park." 

She  called  pride  to  her  aid,  and  he  did  not  guess — for 
all  day  he  had  marked  her  self-possession — that  she  was 
trembling.  Vainly  she  told  herself  that  she  was  foolish, 
that  nothing  could  happen  to  her,  nothing  that  mattered. 
What,  after  all,  was  a  cold  reception,  what  was  her  uncle's 
frown  beside  the  poverty  and  the  hazards  from  which  she 
had  escaped?  Vainly  she  reassured  herself;  she  could  not 
still  the  rapid  beating  of  her  heart. 

He  might  have  said  a  word  to  cheer  her.  But  he  did  not 
know  that  she  was  suffering,  and  he  said  no  word.  She 
came  near  to  hating  him  for  his  stolidity  and  his  silence. 
He  was  inhuman !  A  block ! 

She  peered  through  the  misty  glass,  striving  to  see  what 
was  before  them.  But  she  could  make  out  no  more  than 
the  dark  limbs  of  trees,  and  now  and  then  a  trunk,  which 


FIELD  AND  FORGE  49 

shone  as  the  light  of  the  lamp  slipped  over  it,  and  as 
quickly  vanished.  Suddenly  they  shot  from  turf  to  hard 
road,  passed  through  an  open  gateway,  for  an  instant  the 
lamp  on  her  side  showed  a  grotesque  pillar — they  wheeled, 
they  stopped.  Within  a  few  feet  of  her  a  door  stood  open, 
and  in  the  doorway  a  girl  held  a  lantern  aloft  in  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  screened  her  eyes  from  the  light. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.   JOHN   AUDLEY 

AN  hour  later  Basset  was  seated  on  one  side  of  a  wide 
hearth,  on  the  other  John  Audley  faced  him.  The  library 
in  which  they  sat  was  the  room  which  Basset  loved  best  in 
the  world.  It  was  a  room  of  silence  and  large  spaces, 
and  except  where  four  windows,  tall  and  narrow,  broke  one 
wall,  it  was  lined  high  with  the  companions  of  silence — 
books.  The  ceiling  was  of  black  oak,  adorned  at  the  cross- 
ings of  the  joists  and  beams  with  emblems,  butterflies,  and 
Stafford  knots  and  the  like,  once  bright  with  color,  and 
still  soberly  rich.  A  five-sided  bay  enlarged  each  of  the 
two  inner  corners  of  the  room  and  broke  the  outlines. 
One  of  these  bays  shrined  a  window,  four-mullioned,  the 
other  a  spiral  staircase.  An  air  of  comfort  and  stateliness 
pervaded  the  whole;  here  the  great  scutcheon  over  the 
mantel,  there  the  smaller  coats  on  the  chair-backs  blended 
their  or  and  gules  with  the  hues  of  old  rugs  and  the  dun 
bindings  of  old  folios.  There  were  books  on  the  four  or 
five  tables,  and  books  on  the  Cromwell  chairs;  and  charts 
and  deeds,  antique  weapons  and  silver  pieces,  all  the  tools 
and  toys  of  the  antiquary,  lay  broadcast.  Against  the  door 
hung  a  blazoned  pedigree  of  the  Audleys  of  Beaudelays. 
It  was  six  feet  long  and  dull  with  age. 

But  Basset,  as  he  faced  his  companion,  was  not  thinking 
of  the  room,  or  of  the  pursuits  with  which  it  was  connected 
in  his  mind,  and  which,  more  than  affection  and  habit, 
bound  him  to  John  Audley.  He  moved  restlessly  in  his 
chair,  then  stretched  his  legs  to  meet  the  glow  of  the  wood 

50 


MR.  JOHN  AUDLE7  51 

fire.  "All  the  same/'  he  said,  "I  think  you  would  have 
done  well  to  see  her  to-night,  sir." 

"  Pooh !  pooh !  "  John  Audley  answered  with  lazy  good 
humor.  "  Why?  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  think  of  her  or 
she  thinks  of  me.  It's  what  Peter  thinks  of  Mary  and 
Mary  thinks  of  Peter  that  matters.  That's  what  matters !  " 
He  chuckled  as  he  marked  the  other's  annoyance.  "  She  is 
a  beauty,  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  so." 

"  But  you  think  it.  You  don't  deceive  me  at  this  time  of 
day.  And  stand-off,  is  she?  That's  for  the  marines  and 
innocent  young  fellows  like  you  who  think  women  angels. 
I'll  be  bound  that  she's  her  mother's  daughter,  and  knows 
her  value  and  will  see  that  she  fetches  it!  Trading  blood 
will  out ! " 

To  the  eye  that  looked  and  glanced  away  John  Audley, 
lolling  in  his  chair,  in  a  quilted  dressing-gown  with  silk 
facings,  was  a  plump  and  pleasant  figure.  His  face  was 
fresh-colored,  and  would  have  been  comely  if  the  cheeks 
had  not  been  a  little  pendulous.  His  hair  was  fine  and 
white  and  he  wore  it  long,  and  his  hands  were  shapely 
and  well  cared  for.  As  he  said  his  last  word  he  poured  a 
little  brandy  into  a  glass  and  filled  it  up  with  water. 
"  Here's  to  the  wooing  that's  not  long  adoing ! "  he  said,  his 
eyes  twinkling.  He  seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  annoying 
the  other. 

He  was  so  far  successful  that  Basset  swore  softly.  "  It's 
silly  to  talk  like  that,"  he  said,  "  when  I  have  hardly  known 
the  girl  twenty-four  hours  and  have  scarcely  said  ten  times 
as  many  words  to  her." 

"  But  you're  going  to  say  a  good  many  more  words  to 
her !  "  Audley  retorted,  grinning.  "  Sweet,  pretty  words, 
my  boy !  But  there,  there,"  he  continued,  veering  between 
an  elfish  desire  to  tease  and  a  desire  equally  strong  to  bring 
the  other  to  his  way  of  thinking.  "  I'm  only  joking.  I 
know  you'll  never  let  that  devil  have  his  way!  You'll 


52  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

never  leave  the  course  open  for  him!  I  know  that.  But 
there's  no  hurry!  There's  no  hurry.  Though,  lord,  how 
I  sweated  when  I  read  his  letter !  I  had  never  a  wink  of 
sleep  the  night  after." 

"  I  don't  suppose  that  he's  given  a  thought  to  her  in  that 
way,"  Basset  answered.  "  Why  should  he?  " 

John  Audley  leant  forward,  and  his  face  underwent  a 
remarkable  change.  It  became  a  pale,  heavy  mask,  out  of 
which  his  eyes  gleamed,  small  and  malevolent.  "Don't 
talk  like  a  fool ! "  he  said  harshly.  "Of  course  he  means 
it.  And  if  she's  fool  enough  all  my  plans,  all  my  pains, 
all  my  rights — and  once  you  come  to  your  senses  and  help 
me  I  shall  have  my  rights — all,  all,  all  will  go  for  nothing. 
For  nothing !  "  He  sank  back  in  his  chair.  "  There !  now 
you've  excited  me.  You've  excited  me,  and  you  know  that 
I  can't  bear  excitement !  "  His  hand  groped  feebly  for  his 
glass,  and  he  raised  it  to  his  lips.  He  gasped  once  or  twice. 
The  color  came  back  to  his  face. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Basset  said. 

"  Ay,  ay.  But  be  a  good  lad.  Be  a  good  lad.  Make  up 
your  mind  to  help  me  at  the  Great  House." 

Basset  shook  his  head. 

"  To  help  me,  and  twenty-four  hours — only  twenty-four 
hours,  man — may  make  all  the  difference!  All  the  dif- 
ference in  the  world  to  me." 

"  I  have  told  you  my  views  about  it,"  Basset  said  dog- 
gedly. He  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "  I  cannot  do  it, 
sir,  and  I  won't." 

John  Audley  groaned.  "  Well,  well ! "  he  answered. 
"  I'll  say  no  more  now.  I'll  say  no  more  now.  When  you 
and  she  have  made  it  up  " — in  vain  Basset  shook  his  head 
— "you'll  see  the  question  in  another  light.  Ay,  believe 
me,  you  will.  It'll  be  your  business  then,  and  your  interest, 
and  nothing  venture,  nothing  win!  You'll  see  it  differ- 
ently. You'll  help  the  old  man  to  his  rights  then." 

Basset  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  thought  it  useless  to 


MR.  JOHN  AUDLEY  53 

protest.  The  other  sighed  once  or  twice  and  was  silent 
also.  At  length,  "  You  never  told  me  that  you  had  heard 
from  her,"  Basset  said. 

"  That  I'd "  John  Audley  broke  off.  "  What  is  it, 

Toft  ?  "  he  asked  over  his  shoulder. 

A  man-servant,  tall,  thin,  lantern-jawed,  had  entered 
unseen.  "I  came  to  see  if  you  wanted  anything  more, 
sir?"  he  said. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  Toft.  Good-night !  "  He  spoke 
impatiently,  and  he  watched  the  man  out  before  he  went 
on.  Then,  "  Perhaps  I  heard  from  her,  perhaps  I  didn't," 
he  said.  "  It's  some  time  ago.  What  of  it  ?  " 

"  She  was  in  great  distress  when  she  wrote." 

John  Audley  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  What  of  it ! "  he 
repeated.  "  She  was  that  woman's  daughter.  When  Peter 

married  a  tradesman's  daughter — married  a "  He  did 

not  continue.  His  thoughts  trickled  away  into  silence. 
The  matter  was  not  worthy  of  his  attention. 

But  by  and  by  he  roused  himself.  "You've  ridiculous 
scruples,"  he  said.  "Absurd  scruples.  But,"  briskly, 
"  there's  that  much  of  good  in  this  girl  that  I  think  she'll 
put  an  end  to  them.  You  must  brighten  up,  my  lad,  and 
spark  it  a  little !  You're  too  grave." 

"  Damn !  "  said  Basset.  "  For  God's  sake,  don't  begin 
it  all  again.  I've  told  you  that  I've  not  the  least  inten- 
tion  " 

"  She'll  see  to  that  if  she's  what  I  think  her,"  John 
Audley  retorted  cheerfully.  "  If  she's  her  mother's  daugh- 
ter !  But  very  well,  very  well !  We'll  change  the  subject. 
I've  been  working  at  the  Feathers — the  Prince's  Feathers." 

"  Have  you  gone  any  farther  ?  "  Basset  asked,  forcing 
an  interest  which  would  have  been  ready  enough  at  another 
time. 

"  I  might  have,  but  I  had  a  visitor." 

Visitors  were  rare  at  the  Gatehouse,  and  Basset  won- 
dered. "  Who  was  it  ?  "  he  asked. 


54  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"Bagenal  the  maltster  from  Riddsley.  He  came  about 
some  political  rubbish.  Some  trouble  they  are  having  with 
Mottisfont.  D — n  Mottisfont!  What  do  I  care  about 
him?  They  think  he  isn't  running  straight — that  he's 
going  in  for  corn-law  repeal.  And  Bagenal  and  the  other 
fools  think  that  that  will  be  the  ruin  of  the  town." 

"  But  Mottisfont  is  a  Tory,"  Basset  objected. 

"  So  is  Peel.  They  are  both  in  Bagenal's  bad  books. 
Bagenal  is  sure  that  Peel  is  going  back  to  the  cotton  people 
he  came  from.  Spinning  Jenny  spinning  round  again !  " 

"  I  see." 

"  I  asked  him,"  Audley  continued,  rubbing  his  knees 
with  sly  enjoyment,  "what  Stubbs  the  lawyer  was  doing 
about  it.  He's  the  party  manager.  Why  didn't  he  come  to 
me?" 

Basset  smiled.    "  What  did  he  say  to  that? " 

"  Hummed  and  hawed.  At  last  he  said  that  owing  to 
Stubbs's  connection  with — you  know  who — it  was  thought 
that  he  was  not  the  right  person  to  come  to  me.  So  I 
asked  him  what  Stubbs's  employer  was  going  to  do 
about  it." 

"Ah!" 

"  He  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  that,  the  ass !  Thought 
I  should  go  the  other  way,  you  see.  So  I  told  him" — 
John  Audley  laughed  maliciously  as  he  spoke — "  that,  for 
the  landed  interest,  the  law  had  taken  away  my  land,  and, 
for  politics,  I  would  not  give  a  d — n  for  either  party  in  a 
country  where  men  did  not  get  their  rights!  Lord!  how 
he  looked!" 

"  Well,  you  didn't  hide  your  feelings." 

"Why  should  I?"  John  Audley  asked  cheerfully. 
"  What  will  they  do  for  me  ?  Nothing.  Will  they  move 
a  finger  to  right  me?  No.  Then  a  plague  on  both  their 
houses !  "  He  snapped  his  fingers  in  schoolboy  fashion  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  He  lit  a  candle,  taking  a  light  from  the 
fire  with  a  spill.  "I  am  going  to  bed  now,  Peter. 


"MR.  JOHN  AUDLEY  55 

Unless "  he  paused,  the  candlestick  in  his  hand,  and 

gazed  fixedly  at  his  companion.  "  Lord,  man,  what  we 
could  do  in  two  or  three  hours!  In  two  or  three  hours. 
This  very  night !  " 

"  I've  told  you  that  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it ! " 
Basset  repeated. 

John  Audley  sighed,  and  removing  his  eyes,  poked  the 
wick  of  the  candle  with  the  snuffers.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
"  good-night.  We  must  look  to  bright  eyes  and  red  lips 
to  convert  you.  What  a  man  won't  do  for  another  he  will 
do  for  himself,  Peter.  Good-night." 

Left  alone,  Basset  stared  fretfully  at  the  fire.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  by  scores  that  John  Audley  had  tried 
him  and  driven  him  almost  beyond  bearing.  But  habit  is 
a  strong  tie,  and  a  common  taste  is  a  bond  even  stronger. 
In  this  room,  and  from  the  elder  man,  Basset  had  learned 
to  trace  a  genealogy,  to  read  a  coat,  to  know  a  bar  from  a 
bend,  to  discourse  of  badges  and  collars  under  the  guidance 
of  the  learned  Anstie  or  the  ingenious  Le  Neve.  There  he 
had  spent  hours  flitting  from  book  to  book  and  chart  to 
chart  in  the  pursuit,  as  thrilling  while  it  lasted  as  any  fox- 
chase,  of  some  family  link,  the  origin  of  this,  the  end  of 
that,  a  thing  of  value  only  to  those  who  sought  it,  but  to 
them  all-important.  He  could  recall  many  a  day  so  spent 
while  rain  lashed  the  tall  mullioned  windows  or  sunlight 
flooded  the  window-seat  in  the  bay;  and  these  days  had 
endeared  to  him  every  nook  in  the  library  from  the  folio 
shelves  in  the  shadowy  corner  under  the  staircase  to  the 
cosey  table  near  the  hearth  which  was  called  "  Mr. 
Basset's,"  and  enshrined  in  a  long  drawer  a  tree  of  the 
Bassets  of  Blore. 

For  he  as  well  as  Audley  came  of  an  ancient  and 
shrunken  stock.  He  also  could  count  among  his  forbears 
men  who  had  fought  at  Blore  Heath  and  Towton,  or  had 
escaped  by  a  neck  from  the  ruin  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot. 
So  he  had  fallen  early  under  the  spell  of  the  elder  man's 


56  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

pursuits,  and,  still  young,  had  learned  from  him  to  live  in 
the  past.  Later  the  romantic  solitude  of  the  Gatehouse, 
where  he  had  spent  more  of  the  last  six  years  than  in  his 
own  house  at  Blore,  had  confirmed  him  in  the  habit. 

Under  the  surface,  however,  the  two  men  remained  sin- 
gularly unlike.  While  a  fixed  idea  had  narrowed  John 
Audley's  vision  to  the  inhuman,  the  younger  man,  under  a 
dry  and  reserved  exterior — he  was  shy,  and  his  undrained 
acres,  his  twelve  hundred  a  year,  poorly  supported  an 
ancient  name — was  not  only  human,  but  in  his  way  was 
something  of  an  idealist.  He  dreamed  dreams,  he  had  his 
secret  aspirations,  at  times  ambition  of  the  higher  kind 
stirred  in  him,  he  planned  plans  and  another  life  than  this. 
But  always — this  was  a  thing  inbred  in  him — he  put  for- 
ward the  commonplace,  as  the  cuttle-fish  sheds  ink,  and  hid 
nothing  so  shyly  as  the  visions  which  he  had  done  nothing 
to  make  real.  On  those  about  him  he  made  no  deep  im- 
pression, though  from  one  border  of  Staffordshire  to  the 
other  his  birth  won  respect.  Politics  viewed  as  a  game,  and 
a  selfish  game,  had  no  attraction  for  him.  Quarter  Sessions 
and  the  Bench  struck  no  spark  from  him.  At  the  Races 
and  the  County  Ball  richer  men  outshone  him.  But  given 
something  to  touch  his  heart  and  fire  his  ambition,  he  had 
qualities.  He  might  still  show  himself  in  another  light. 

Something  of  this,  for  no  reason  that  he  could  imagine, 
some  feeling  of  regret  for  past  opportunities,  passed 
through  his  mind  as  he  sat  fretting  over  John  Audley's 
folly.  But  after  a  time  he  roused  himself  and  became 
aware  that  he  was  tired ;  and  he  rose  and  lit  a  candle.  He 
pushed  back  the  smouldering  logs  and  slowly  and  methodi- 
cally he  put  out  the  lights.  He  gave  a  last  thought  to 
John  Audley.  "  There  was  always  one  maggot  in  his 
head,"  he  muttered,  "  now  there's  a  second.  What  I  would 
not  do  to  please  him,  he  thinks  I  shall  do  to  please  an- 
other !  Well,  he  does  not  know  her  yet !  " 

He  went  to  bed. 


.CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  GATEHOUSE 

IT  is  within  the  bounds  of  imagination  that  death  may 
make  no  greater  change  in  our  inner  selves  than  is 
wrought  at  times  by  a  new  mood  or  another  outlook.  When 
Mary,  an  hour  before  the  world  was  astir  on  the  morning 
after  her  arrival,  let  herself  out  of  the  Gatehouse,  and 
from  its  threshold  as  from  a  ledge  saw  the  broad  valley 
of  the  Trent  stretched  before  her  in  all  the  beauty  of  a 
May  morning,  her  alarm  of  the  past  night  seemed  in- 
credible. At  her  feet  a  sharp  slope,  clothed  in  gorse  and 
shrub,  fell  away  to  meet  the  plain.  It  sank  no  more  than 
a  couple  of  hundred  feet,  but  this  was  enough  to  enable 
her  to  follow  the  silver  streak  of  the  river  winding  afar  be- 
tween park  and  coppice  and  under  many  a  church  tower. 
Away  to  the  right  she  could  see  the  three  graceful  spires  of 
Lichfield,  and  southward,  where  an  opal  haze  closed  the 
prospect,  she  could  imagine  the  fringe  of  the  Black  Coun- 
try, made  beautiful  by  distance. 

In  sober  fact  few  parts  of  England  are  less  inviting  than 
the  low  lands  of  Staffordshire,  when  the  spring  floods  cover 
them  or  the  fogs  of  autumn  cling  to  the  cold  soil.  But  in 
spring,  when  larks  soar  above  them  and  tall,  lop-sided  elms 
outline  the  fields,  they  have  their  beauty;  and  Mary  gazed 
long  at  the  fair  prospect  before  she  turned  her  back  on  it 
and  looked  at  the  house  that  was  fated  to  be  her  home. 

It  was  what  its  name  signified,  a  gatehouse;  yet  by  turns 
it  could  be  a  sombre  and  a  charming  thing.  Some  Audley 

57 


58  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

of  noble  ideas,  a  man  long  dead,  had  built  it  to  be  the 
entrance  to  his  demesne.  The  park  wall,  overhung  by 
trees,  still  ran  right  and  left  from  it,  but  the  road  which 
had  once  passed  through  the  archway  now  slid  humbly 
aside  and  entered  the  park  by  a  field  gate.  A  wide-latticed, 
Tudor  tower,  rising  two  stories  above  the  arch  and  turreted 
at  the  four  corners,  formed  the  middle.  It  was  buttressed 
on  either  hand  by  a  lower  building,  flush  with  it  and  of 
about  the  same  width.  The  tower  was  of  yellowish  stone, 
the  wings  were  faced  with  stained  stucco.  Eight  and  left 
of  the  whole  a  plot  of  shrubs  masked  on  the  one  hand  the 
stables,  on  the  other  the  kitchens — modern  blocks  set  back 
to  such  a  distance  that  each  touched  the  old  part  at  a 
corner  only. 

He  who  had  planned  the  building  had  set  it  cunningly  on 
the  brow  of  the  Great  Chase,  so  that,  viewed  from  the  vale, 
it  rose  against  the  skyline.  On  dark  days  it  broke  the 
fringe  of  woodland  and  stood  up,  gloomy  and  forbidding, 
the  portal  of  a  Doubting  Castle.  On  bright  days,  with  its 
hundred  diamond  panes  a-glitter  in  the  sunshine,  it  seemed 
to  be  the  porch  of  a  fairy  palace,  the  silent  home  of  some 
Sleeping  Beauty.  At  all  times  it  imposed  itself  upon  men 
below  and  spoke  of  something  beyond,  something  unseen, 
greater,  mysterious. 

To  Mary  Audley,  who  saw  it  at  its  best,  the  very  stains 
of  the  plaster  glorified  by  the  morning  light,  it  was  a  thing 
of  joy.  She  fancied  that  to  live  behind  those  ancient 
mullioned  windows,  to  look  out  morning  and  evening  on 
that  spacious  landscape,  to  feel  the  bustle  of  the  world  so 
remote,  must  in  itself  be  happiness.  For  a  time  she  could 
not  turn  from  it. 

But  presently  the  desire  to  explore  her  new  surroundings 
seized  her  and  she  re-entered  the  house.  A  glance  at  the 
groined  roof  of  the  hall — many  a  gallant  horseman  had 
ridden  under  it  in  his  time — proved  that  it  was  merely  the 
archway  closed  and  fitted  with  a  small  door  and  window 


THE  GATEHOUSE  59 

at  either  end.  She  unlocked  the  farther  door  and  passed 
into  a  paved  court,  in  which  the  grass  grew  between  the 
worn  flags.  In  the  stables  on  the  left  a  dog  whined.  The 
kitchens  were  on  the  other  hand,  and  before  her  an  opening 
flanked  by  tall  heraldic  beasts  broke  a  low  wall,  built  of 
moss-grown  brick.  She  ventured  through  it  and  uttered  a 
cry  of  delight. 

Near  at  hand,  under  cover  of  a  vast  chestnut  tree,  were 
traces  of  domestic  labor:  a  grindstone,  a  saw-pit,  a  wood- 
pile, coops  with  clucking  hens.  But  beyond  these  the 
sward,  faintly  lined  at  first  with  ruts,  stretched  away  into 
forest  glades,  bordered  here  by  giant  oaks  brown  in  bud, 
there  by  the  yellowish-green  of  beech  trees.  In  the  fore- 
ground lay  patches  of  gorse,  and  in  places  an  ancient  thorn, 
riven  and  half  prostrate,  crowned  the  russet  of  last  year's 
bracken  with  a  splash  of  cream.  Heedless  of  the  spectator, 
rabbits  sat  making  their  toilet,  and  from  every  brake  birds 
filled  the  air  with  a  riot  of  song. 

To  one  who  had  seen  little  but  the  streets  of  Paris,  more 
sordid  then  than  now,  the  scene  was  charming.  Mary's 
eyes  filled,  her  heart  swelled.  Ah,  what  a  home  was  here ! 
She  had  espied  on  her  journey  many  a  nook  and  sheltered 
dell,  but  nothing  that  could  vie  with  this!  Heedless  of 
her  thin  shoes,  with  no  more  than  a  handkerchief  on  her 
head,  she  strayed  on  and  on.  By  and  by  a  track,  faintly 
marked,  led  her  to  the  left.  A  little  farther,  and  old  trees 
fell  into  line  on  either  hand,  as  if  in  days  long  gone, 
before  age  thinned  their  ranks,  they  had  formed  an  avenue. 

For  a  time  she  sat  musing  on  a  fallen  trunk,  then  the 
hawthorn  that  a  few  paces  away  perfumed  the  spring  air 
moved  her  to  gather  an  armful  of  it.  She  forgot  that  time 
was  passing,  almost  she  forgot  that  she  had  not  break- 
fasted, and  she  might  have  been  nearly  a  mile  from  the 
Gatehouse  when  she  was  startled  by  a  faint  hail  that 
seemed  to  come  from  behind  her.  She  looked  back  and  saw 
Basset  coming  after  her. 


60  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

He,  too,  was  hatless — he  had  set  off  in  haste — and  he  was 
out  of  breath.  She  turned  with  concern  to  meet  him.  "  Am 
I  very  late,  Mr.  Basset  ?  "  she  asked,  her  conscience  pricking 
her.  What  if  this  first  morning  she  had  broken  the  rules  ? 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said.  And  then,  "  You've  not  been  farther 
than  this?" 

"  No.    I  am  afraid  my  uncle  is  waiting  ?  " 

"  Oh  no.  He  breakfasts  in  his  own  room.  But  Etruria 
told  me  that  you  had  gone  this  way,  and  I  followed.  I 
see  that  you  are  not  empty-handed." 

"  No."  And  she  thrust  the  great  bunch  of  may  under 
his  nose — who  would  not  have  been  gay,  who  would  not 
have  lost  her  reserve  in  such  a  scene,  on  such  a  morning? 
"  Isn't  it  fresh  ?  Isn't  it  delicious  ?  " 

As  he  stooped  to  the  flowers  his  eyes  met  hers  smiling 
through  the  hawthorn  sprays,  and  he  saw  her  as  he  had 
not  seen  her  before.  Her  gravity  had  left  her.  Spring 
laughed  in  her  eyes,  youth  fluttered  in  the  tendrils  of  her 
hair,  she  was  the  soul  of  May.  And  what  she  had  found 
of  beauty  in  the  woodland,  of  music  in  the  larks'  songs, 
of  perfume  in  the  blossoms,  of  freshness  in  the  morning, 
the  man  found  in  her ;  and  a  shock,  never  to  be  forgotten, 
ran  through  him.  He  did  not  speak.  He  smelled  the  haw- 
thorn in  silence. 

But  a  few  seconds  later — as  men  reckon  time — he  took 
note  of  his  feelings,  and  he  was  startled.  He  had  not  been 
prepared  to  like  her,  we  know;  many  things  had  armed  him 
against  her.  But  before  the  witchery  of  her  morning  face, 
the  challenge  of  her  laughing  eyes,  he  awoke  to  the  fact 
that  he  was  in  danger.  He  had  to  own  that  if  he  must  live 
beside  her  day  by  day  and  would  maintain  his  indifference, 
he  must  steel  himself.  He  must  keep  his  first  impressions 
of  her  always  before  him,  and  be  careful.  And  be  very 
careful — if  even  that  might  avail. 

For  a  hundred  paces  he  walked  at  her  side,  listening 
without  knowing  what  she  said.  Then  his  coolness  re- 


THE  GATEHOUSE  61 

turned,  and  when  she  asked  him  why  he  had  come  after 
her  without  his  hat  he  was  ready. 

"  I  had  better  tell  you/'  he  answered,  "  this  path  is  little 
used.  It  leads  to  the  Great  House,  and  your  uncle,  owing 
to  his  quarrel  with  Lord  Audley,  does  not  like  any  one  to 
go  farther  in  that  direction  than  the  Yew  Tree  Walk.  You 
can  see  the  Walk  from  here — the  yews  mark  the  entrance 
to  the  gardens.  I  thought  that  it  would  be  unfortu- 
nate if  you  began  by  displeasing  him,  and  I  came  after 
you." 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you,"  she  said.  Her  face  was  not 
gay  now.  "Does  Lord  Audley  live  there — when  he  is  at 
home?" 

"  No  one  lives  there,"  he  explained  soberly.  "  No  one 
has  lived  there  for  three  generations.  It's  a  ruin — I  was 
going  to  say,  a  nightmare.  The  greater  part  of  the  house 
was  burnt  down  in  a  carouse  held  to  celebrate  the  accession 
of  George  the  Third.  The  Audley  of  that  day  rebuilt  it  on 
a  great  scale,  but  before  it  was  finished  he  gave  a  house- 
warming,  at  which  his  only  son  quarrelled  with  a  guest. 
The  two  fought  at  daybreak,  and  the  son  was  killed  beside 
the  old  Butterfly  in  the  Yew  Walk — you  will  see  the  spot 
some  day.  The  father  sent  away  the  builders  and  never 
looked  up  again.  He  diverted  much  of  his  property,  and 
a  cousin  came  into  the  remainder  and  the  title,  but  the 
house  was  never  finished,  the  windows  in  the  new  part 
were  never  glazed.  In  the  old  part  some  furniture  and 
tapestry  decay;  in  the  new  are  only  bats  and  dust  and  owls. 
So  it  has  stood  for  eighty  years,  vacant  in  the  midst  of 
neglected  gardens.  In  the  sunlight  it  is  one  of  the  most 
dreary  things  you  can  imagine.  By  moonlight  it  is  better, 
but  unspeakably  melancholy." 

"  How  dreadful,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.     "  I  almost 
wish,  Mr.  Basset,  that  you  had  not  told  me.    They  say  in 
France  that  if  you  see  the  dead  without  touching  them,  you  • 
dream  of  them.    I  feel  like  that  about  the  house." 


6a  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

It  crossed  his  mind  that  she  was  talking  for  effect.  "  It 
is  only  a  house  after  all/'  he  said. 

"  But  our  house,"  with  a  touch  of  pride.  Then,  "  What 
are  those?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the  gray  shapeless 
beasts,  time-worn  and  weather-stained,  that  flanked  the 
entrance  to  the  courtyard. 

"  They  are,  or  once  were,  Butterflies,  the  badge  of  the 
Audleys.  These  hold  shields.  You  will  see  the  Butterflies 
in  many  places  in  the  Gatehouse.  You  will  find  them  with 
men's  faces  and  sometimes  with  a  fret  on  the  wings.  Your 
uncle  says  that  they  are  not  butterflies,  but  moths,  that 
have  eaten  the  Audley  fortunes." 

It  was  a  thought  that  matched  the  picture  he  had  drawn 
of  the  deserted  house,  and  Mary  felt  that  the  morning  had 
lost  its  brightness.  But  not  for  long.  Basset  led  her  into 
a  room  on  the  right  of  the  hall,  and  the  sight  drew  from 
her  a  cry  of  pleasure.  On  three  sides  the  dark  wainscot 
rose  eight  feet  from  the  floor;  above,  the  walls  were  white- 
washed to  the  ceiling  and  broken  by  dim  portraits,  on 
stretchers  and  without  frames.  On  the  fourth  side  where 
the  panelling  divided  the  room  from  a  serving-room,  once 
part  of  it,  it  rose  to  the  ceiling.  The  stone  hearth,  the 
iron  dogs,  the  matted  floor,  the  heavy  chairs  and  oak  table, 
all  were  dark  and  plain  and  increased  the  austerity  of  the 
room. 

At  the  end  of  the  table  places  were  laid  for  three,  and 
Toft,  who  had  set  on  the  breakfast,  was  fixing  the  kettle 
amid  the  burning  logs. 

"  Is  Mr.  Audley  coming  down  ?  "  Basset  asked. 

"  He  bade  me  lay  for  him,"  Toft  replied  dryly.  "  I 
doubt  if  he  will  come.  You  had  better  begin,  sir.  The 
young  lady,"  with  a  searching  look  at  her,  "  must  want  her 
breakfast." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do,"  Mary  confessed. 

''  Yes,  we  will  begin,"  Basset  said.  He  invited  her  to 
make  the  tea. 


THE  GATEHOUSE  63 

When  they  were  seated,  "  You  like  the  room  ?  " 

"  I  love  it,"  she  answered. 

"  So  do  I,"  he  rejoined,  more  soberly.  "  The  panelling 
is  linen-pattern  of  the  fifteenth  century — you  see  the  folds? 
It  was  saved  from  the  old  house.  I  am  glad  you  like  it." 

"  I  love  it,"  she  said  again.  But  after  that  she  grew 
thoughtful,  and  during  the  rest  of  the  meal  she  said  little. 
She  was  thinking  of  what  was  before  her;  of  the  unknown 
uncle,  whose  bread  she  was  eating,  and  upon  whom  she  was 
going  to  be  dependent.  What  would  he  be  like?  How 
would  he  receive  her?  And  why  was  every  one  so  reticent 
about  him — so  reticent  that  he  was  beginning  to  be  some- 
thing of  an  ogre  to  her?  When  Toft  presently  appeared 
and  said  that  Mr.  Audley  was  in  the  library  and  would  see 
her  when  she  was  ready,  she  lost  color.  But  she  answered 
the  man  with  self-possession,  asked  quietly  where  the 
library  was,  and  had  not  Basset's  eyes  been  on  her  face  he 
would  have  had  no  notion  that  she  was  troubled. 

As  it  was,  he  waited  for  her  to  avow  her  misgiving — he 
was  prepared  to  encourage  her.  But  she  said  nothing. 

None  the  less,  at  the  last  moment,  with  her  hand  on  the 
door  of  the  library,  she  hesitated.  It  was  not  so  much  fear 
of  the  unknown  relative  whom  she  was  going  to  see  that 
drove  the  blood  from  her  cheek,  as  the  knowledge  that  for 
her  everything  depended  upon  him.  Her  new  home,  its 
peace,  its  age,  its  woodland  surroundings,  fascinated  her. 
It  promised  her  not  only  content,  but  happiness.  But  as 
her  stay  in  it  hung  upon  John  Audley's  will,  so  her 
pleasure  in  it,  and  her  enjoyment  of  it,  depended  upon  the 
relations  between  them.  What  would  they  be  ?  How  would 
he  receive  her  ?  What  would  he  be  like  ?  At  last  she  called 
up  her  courage,  turned  the  handle,  and  entered  the  library. 

For  a  moment  she  saw  no  one.  The  great  room,  with 
its  distances  and  its  harmonious  litter,  appeared  to  be 
empty.  Then,  "  Mary,  my  dear,"  said  a  pleasant  voice, 
"  welcome  to  the  Gatehouse ! "  And  John  Audley  rose 


64  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

from  his  seat  at  a  distant  table  and  came  towards 
her. 

The  notion  which  she  had  formed  of  him  vanished  in  a 
twinkling,  and  with  it  her  fears.  She  saw  before  her  an 
elderly  gentleman,  plump  and  kindly,  who  walked  with  a 
short  tripping  step,  and  wore  the  swallow-tailed  coat  with 
gilt  buttons  which  the  frock-coat  had  displaced.  He  took 
her  hand  with  a  smile,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  and  led 
her  to  a  chair  placed  beside  his  own.  He  sat  for  a  moment 
holding  her  hand  and  looking  at  her. 

"  Yes,  I  see  the  likeness,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  con- 
templation. "  But,  my  dear,  how  is  this  ?  There  are  tears 
in  your  eyes,  and  you  tremble." 

"  I  think/'  she  said,  "  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  you, 
sir." 

"Well,  you  are  not  afraid  now,"  he  replied  cheerfully. 
"  And  you  won't  be  again.  You  won't  be  again.  My  dear, 
welcome  once  more  to  the  Gatehouse.  I  hope  that  it  may 
be  your  home  until  another  is  offered  you.  Things  came 
between  your  father  and  me — I  shall  never  mention  them 
again,  and  don't  you,  my  dear !  " — this  a  little  hurriedly — 
"  don't  you ;  all  that  is  buried  now,  and  I  must  make  it  up 
to  you.  Your  letters  ?  "  he  continued,  patting  her  hand. 
"  Yes,  Peter  told  me  that  you  wrote  to  me.  I  need  not 
say  that  I  never  had  them.  No,  never  had  them — Toft, 
what  is  it?" 

The  change  in  his  voice  struck  her.  The  servant  had 
come  in  quietly.  "  Mr.  Basset,  sir,  has  lost " 

"  Another  time !  "  John  Audley  replied  curtly.  "  An- 
other time!  I  am  engaged  now.  Go!"  Then  when  the 
door  had  closed  behind  the  servant,  "  No,  my  dear,"  he 
continued,  "  I  need  not  say  that  I  never  had  them,  so  that 
I  first  heard  of  your  troubles  through  a  channel  upon  which 
I  will  not  dwell.  However,  many  good  things  come  by  bad 
ways,  Mary.  I  hope  you  like  the  Gatehouse  ?  " 

"  It  is  charming !  "  she  cried  with  enthusiasm. 


THE  GATEHOUSE  65 

"  It  has  only  one  drawback/'  he  said. 

She  was  clever  enough  to  understand  that  he  referred  to 
its  owner,  and  to  escape  from  the  subject.  "  This  room/' 
she  said,  "  is  perfection.  I  have  never  seen  anything  like 
it,  sir." 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  room,"  he  said,  looking  round  him. 
"  There  is  our  coat  over  the  mantel,  gules,  a  fret  or ;  like 
all  old  coats,  very  simple.  Some  think  it  is  the  Lacy  Knot ; 
the  Audley  of  Edward  the  First's  time  married  a  Lacy. 
But  we  bore  our  old  coat  of  three  Butterflies  later  than 
that,  for  before  the  fall  of  Eoger  Mortimer,  who  was  hung 
at  Tyburn,  he  married  his  daughter  to  an  Audley,  and  the 
escheaters  found  the  wedding  chamber  in  his  house  fur- 
nished with  our  Butterflies.  Later  the  Butterfly  survived 
as  our  badge.  You  see  it  there ! "  he  continued,  pointing 
it  out  among  the  mouldings  of  the  ceiling.  "  There  is  the 
Stafford  Knot,  the  badge  of  the  great  Dukes  of  Bucking- 
ham, the  noblest  of  English  families;  it  is  said  that  the  last 
of  the  line,  a  cobbler,  died  at  Newport,  not  twenty  miles 
from  here.  We  intermarried  with  them,  and  through  them 
with  Peter's  people,  the  Bassets.  That  is  the  Lovel  Wolf, 
and  there  is  the  White  Wolf  of  the. Mortimers — all  badges. 
But  you  do  not  know,  I  suppose,  what  a  badge  is  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  But  I  am  as 
proud  of  our  Butterfly,  and  as  proud  to  be  an  Audley,  sir, 
as  if  I  knew  more." 

"Peter  must  give  you  some  lessons  in  heraldry,"  he 
answered.  "  We  live  in  the  past  here,  my  dear,  and  we 
must  indoctrinate  you  with  a  love  of  our  pursuits  or  you 
will  be  dull."  He  paused  to  consider.  "  I  am  afraid  that 
we  cannot  allot  you  a  drawing-room,  but  you  must  make 
your  room  upstairs  as  comfortable  as  you  can.  Etruria  will 
see  to  that.  And  Peter  shall  arrange  a  table  for  you  in 
the  south  bay  here,  and  it  shall  be  your  table  and  your 
bay.  That  is  his  table;  this  is  mine.  We  are  orderly,  and 
BO  we  do  not  get  in  one  another's  way." 


66  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

She  thanked  him  gratefully,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
she  said  something  to  which  he  would  not  listen — he  only 
patted  her  hand — as  to  his  kindness,  his  great  kindness,  in 
receiving  her.  She  could  not,  indeed,  put  her  relief  into 
words,  so  deep  was  it.  Nowhere,  she  felt,  could  life  be 
more  peaceful  or  more  calm  than  in  this  room  which  no 
sounds  of  the  outer  world  except  the  songs  of  birds,  no 
sights  save  the  swaying  of  branches  disturbed;  where  the 
blazoned  panes  cast  their  azure  and  argent  on  lines  of 
russet  books,  where  an  aged  hound  sprawled  before  the 
embers,  and  the  measured  tick  of  the  clock  alone  vied  with 
the  scratching  of  the  pen.  She  saw  herself  seated  there 
during  drowsy  summer  days,  or  when  firelight  cheered  the 
winter  evenings.  She  saw  herself  sewing  beside  the  hearth 
while  her  companions  worked,  each  within  his  circle  of 
light 

Then,  she  also  was  an  Audley.  She  also  had  her  share 
in  the  race  which  had  lived  long  on  this  spot.  Already  she 
was  fired  with  the  desire  to  know  more  of  them,  and  that 
flame  John  Audley  was  well  fitted  to  fan.  For  he  was  not 
of  the  school  of  dry-as-dust  antiquaries.  He  had  the  knack 
of  choosing  the  picturesque  in  story,  he  could  make  it  stand 
out  for  others,  he  could  impart  life  to  the  actors  in  it. 
And,  anxious  to  captivate  Mary,  he  bent  himself  for  nearly 
an  hour  to  the  display  of  his  knowledge.  Taking  for  his 
text  one  or  other  of  the  objects  about  him,  he  told  her  of 
great  castles,  from  which  England  had  been  ruled,  and 
through  which  the  choicest  life  of  the  country  had  passed, 
that  now  were  piles  of  sherds  clothed  with  nettles.  He 
told  her  of  that  woodland  country  on  the  borders  of  three 
counties,  where  the  papists  had  long  lived  undisturbed  and 
where  the  Gunpowder  Plot  had  had  its  centre.  He  told 
her  of  the  fashion  which  came  in  with  "Richard  the  Second, 
of  adorning  the  clothes  with  initials,  reading  and  writing 
having  become  for  the  first  time  courtly  accomplishments ; 
and  to  illustrate  this  he  showed  her  the  Westminster  por- 


THE  GATEHOUSE  67 

trait  of  Richard  in  a  robe  embroidered  with  letters  of  R. 
He  quoted  Chaucer: 

And  thereon  hung  a  broch  of  gold  ful  schene 
On  which  was  first  i-written  a  crowned  A 
And  after  that,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Then,  turning  his  back  on  her,  he  produced  from  some 
secret  place  a  key,  and  opening  a  masked  cupboard  in  the 
wall,  he  held  out  for  her  inspection  a  small  bowl,  bent  and 
mis-shapen  by  use,  and  supported  by  two  fragile  butterflies. 
The  whole  was  of  silver  so  thin  that  to  modern  eyes  it 
seemed  trivial.  Traces  of  gilding  lingered  about  some 
parts  of  it,  and  on  each  of  the  wings  of  the  butterflies  was 
a  capital  A. 

She  was  charmed.  "Of  all  your  illustrations/'  she  cried, 
" I  prefer  this  one !  It  is  very  old,  I  suppose?  " 

"It  is  of  the  fifteenth  century,"  he  said,  turning  it 
about.  "  We  believe  that  it  was  made  for  the  Audley  who 
fell  early  in  the  Wars  of  the  Eoses.  Pages  and  knights, 
maids  and  matrons,  gloves  of  silk  and  gloves  of  mail, 
wrinkled  palms  and  babies'  fingers,  the  men,  the  women, 
the  children  of  twelve  generations  of  our  race,  my  dear, 
have  handled  this.  Once,  according  to  an  old  inventory, 
there  were  six ;  this  one  alone  remains." 

"It  must  be  very  rare?"  she  said,  her  eyes  sparkling. 

"  It  is  very  rare,"  he  said,  and  he  handled  it  as  if  he 
loved  it.  He  had  not  once  allowed  it  to  go  out  of  his 
fingers.  "  Very  rare.  I  doubt  if,  apart  from  the  City  Com- 
panies, there  is  another  in  the  hands  of  the  original 
owners." 

"  And  it  came  to  you  by  descent,  sir?" 

He  paused  in  the  act  of  returning  it  to  its  hiding-place. 
"  Yes,  that  is  how  it  came  to  me,"  he  said  in  a  muffled  tone. 
But  he  seemed  to  be  a  long  time  putting  it  away ;  and  when 
he  turned  with  the  key  in  his  hand  his  face  was  altered, 


68  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

and  he  looked  at  her — well,  had  she  done  anything  to  anger 
him,  she  would  have  thought  he  was  angry.  "  To  whom 
besides  me  could  it  descend !  "  he  asked,  his  voice  raised  a 
tone.  "But  there,  I  must  not  grow  excited.  I  think — I 
think  you  had  better  go  now.  Go,  my  dear,  now.  But 
come  back  presently." 

Mary  went.  But  the  change  in  tone  and  face  had  been 
such  as  to  startle  her  and  to  dash  the  happy  mood  of  a 
few  moments  earlier.  She  wondered  what  she  had  said 
to  annoy  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

OLD  THINGS 

THE  Gatehouse,  placed  on  the  verge  of  the  upland,  was 
very  solitary.  Cut  off  from  the  vale  by  an  ascent  which 
the  coachmen  of  the  great  deemed  too  rough  for  their 
horses,  it  was  isolated  on  the  other  three  sides  by  Beaude- 
lays  Park  and  by  the  Great  Chase,  which  flung  its  barren 
moors  over  many  miles  of  table-land.  In  the  course  of  the 
famous  suit  John  Audley  had  added  to  the  solitude  of  the 
house  by  a  smiling  aloofness  which  gave  no  quarter  to  those 
who  agreed  with  his  rival.  The  result  was  that  when  Mary 
came  to  live  there,  few  young  people  would  have  found  the 
Gatehouse  a  lively  abode. 

But  to  Mary  during  the  quiet  weeks  that  followed  her 
arrival  it  seemed  a  paradise.  She  spent  long  hours  in  the 
open  air,  now  seated  on  a  fallen  trunk  in  some  glade  of 
the  park,  now  watching  the  squirrels  in  the  clear  gloom  of 
the  beech-wood,  or  again,  lying  at  length  on  the  carpet  of 
thyme  and  heather  that  clothed  the  moor.  She  came  to 
know  by  heart  every  path  through  the  park — except  that 
which  led  to  the  Great  House;  she  discovered  where  the 
foxgloves  clustered,  where  the  meadow-sweet  fringed  the 
runlet,  where  the  rare  bog-bean  warned  the  traveller  to  look 
to  his  footing.  Even  the  Great  Chase  she  came  to  know, 
and  almost  daily  she  walked  to  a  point  beyond  the  park 
whence  she  could  see  the  distant  smoke  of  a  mining  village. 
That  was  the  one  sign  of  life  on  the  Chase;  elsewhere  it 
stretched  vast  and  unpeopled,  sombre  under  a  livid  sky, 
smiling  in  sunshine,  here  purple  with  ling,  there  scarred  by 
fire — always  wide  under  a  wide  heaven,  raised  high  above 

69 


70  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

the  common  world.  Now  and  again  she  met  a  shepherd 
or  saw  a  gig,  lessened  by  distance,  making  its  slow  way 
along  a  moorland  track.  But  for  days  together  she  might 
wander  there  without  seeing  a  human  being. 

The  wide  horizon  became  as  dear  to  her  as  the  green- 
wood. Pent  as  she  had  been  in  cities,  straitened  in  mean 
rooms  where  sight  and  smell  had  alike  been  outraged,  she 
revelled  in  this  sweet  and  open  life.  The  hum  of  bees,  the 
scent  of  pines,  the  flight  of  the  ousel  down  the  water,  the 
whistle  of  the  curlew,  all  were  to  her  pleasures  as  vivid  as 
they  were  new. 

Meantime  Basset  made  no  attempt  to  share  her  excur- 
sions. He  was  fighting  a  battle  with  himself,  and  he 
knew  better  than  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  aid  the  enemy. 
And  for  her  part  she  did  not  miss  him.  She  did  not 
dislike  him,  but  the  interest  he  excited  in  her  was  feeble. 
The  thought  of  comparing  him  with  Lord  Audley,  with  the 
man  to  whose  intervention  she  owed  this  home,  this  peace, 
this  content,  never  occurred  to  her.  Of  Audley  she  did 
think  as  much  perhaps  as  was  prudent,  sometimes  with 
pensive  gratitude,  more  rarely  with  a  smile  and  a  blush  at 
her  folly  in  dwelling  on  him.  For  always  she  thought  of 
him  as  one,  high  and  remote,  whom  it  was  not  probable 
that  she  would  ever  see  again,  one  whose  course  through 
life  lay  far  from  hers. 

Presently,  it  is  not  to  be  denied,  Basset  began  to  grow 
upon  her.  He  was  there.  He  was  part  of  her  life.  Morn- 
ing and  evening  she  had  to  do  with  him.  Often  she  read 
or  sewed  in  the  same  room  with  him,  and  in  many  small 
ways  he  added  to  her  comfort.  Sometimes  he  suggested 
things  which  would  please  her  uncle ;  sometimes  he  warned 
her  of  things  which  she  would  do  well  to  avoid.  Once  or 
twice  he  diverted  to  himself  a  spirt  of  John  Audley's  -un- 
certain temper;  and  though  Mary  did  not  always  detect 
the  manoeuvre,  though  she  was  far  from  suspecting  the 
extent  of  his  vigilance  or  the  care  which  he  cast  about  her, 


OLD  THINGS  1\ 

it  would  have  been  odd  if  she  had  not  come  to  think  more 
kindly  of  him,  and  to  see  merits  in  him  which  had  escaped 
her  at  first. 

Meanwhile  he  thought  of  her  with  mingled  feelings.  At 
first  with  doubt — it  was  never  out  of  his  mind  that  she  had 
made  much  of  Lord  Audley  and  little  of  him.  Then  with 
admiration  which  he  withstood  more  feebly  as  time  went 
on,  and  the  cloven  hoof  failed  to  appear.  Later,  with 
tenderness,  which,  hating  the  scheme  John  Audley  had 
formed,  he  masked  even  from  himself,  and  which  he  was 
sure  that  he  would  never  have  the  courage  to  express  in  her 
presence. 

For  Basset  was  conscious  that,  aspire  as  he  might,  he 
was  not  a  hero.  The  clash  of  life,  the  shock  of  battle,  had 
no  attraction  for  him.  The  library  at  the  Gatehouse  was, 
he  owned  it  frankly,  his  true  sphere.  She,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  had  experiences.  She  had  sailed  through  un- 
known seas,  she  had  led  a  life  strange  to  him.  She  had 
seen  much,  done  much,  suffered  much,  had  held  her  own 
among  strangers.  Before  her  calmness  and  self-possession 
he  humbled  himself.  He  veiled  his  head. 

He  did  not  attempt,  therefore,  to  accompany  her  abroad, 
but  at  home  he  had  no  choice  save  to  see  much  of  her. 
There  was  only  one  living  room  for  all,  and  she  glided  with 
surprising  ease  into  the  current  of  the  men's  occupations. 
At  first  she  was  astray  on  the  sea  of  books.  Her  knowl- 
edge was  not  sufficient  to  supply  chart  or  compass,  and  it 
fell  to  Basset  to  point  the  way,  to  choose  her  reading,  to 
set  in  a  proper  light  John  Audle/s  vivid  pictures  of  the 
past,  to  teach  her  the  elements  of  heraldry  and  genealogy. 
She  proved,  however,  an  apt  scholar,  and  very  soon  she 
dropped  into  the  position  of  her  uncle's  secretary.  Some- 
times she  copied  his  notes,  at  other  times  he  set  her  on  the 
track  of  a  fact,  a  relationship,  a  quotation,  and  she  would 
spend  hours  in  a  corner,  embedded  in  huge  tomes  of  the 
county  histories.  Dugdale,  Leland,  Hall,  even  Polydore 


72  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Vergil,  became  her  friends.  She  pored  over  the  Paston 
Letters,  probed  the  false  pedigrees  of  Banks,  and  could 
soon  work  out  for  herself  the  famous  discovery  respecting 
the  last  Lovel. 

For  a  young  girl  it  was  an  odd  pursuit.  But  the  past 
was  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  house,  it  went  with  the 
fortunes  of  a  race  whose  importance  lay  in  days  long 
gone.  Then  all  was  new  to  her,  enthusiasm  is  easily 
caught,  and  Mary,  eager  to  please  her  uncle,  was  glad  to  be 
of  use.  She  found  the  work  restful  after  the  suspense  of 
the  past  year.  It  sufficed  for  the  present,  and  she  asked 
no  more. 

She  never  forgot  the  lamplit  evenings  of  that  summer; 
the  spacious  room,  the  fluttering  of  the  moths  that  entered 
by  the  open  windows,  the  flop  of  the  old  dog  as  it  sought 
a  cooler  spot,  the  whisper  of  leaves  turned  ceaselessly  in  the 
pursuit  of  a  fact  or  a  fancy.  In  the  retrospect  all  became 
less  a  picture  than  a  frame  containing  a  past  world,  a 
fifteenth-century  world  of  color  and  movement,  of  rooms 
stifled  in  hangings  and  tapestries,  of  lines  of  spear-points 
and  rows  of  knights  in  surcoats,  of  tolling  bells  and  praying 
monks,  of  travellers  kneeling  before  wayside  shrines,  of 
strange  changes  of  fortune.  For  says  the  chronicler : 

"  I  saw  one  of  them,  who  was  Duke  of  Exeter  (but  he 
concealed  his  name)  following  the  Duke  of  Burgundy's 
train  barefoot  and  bare-legged,  begging  his  bread  from 
door  to  door — this  person  was  the  next  of  the  House  of 
Lancaster  and  had  married  King  Edward's  sister." 

And  of  dark  sayings : 

"Thys  sayde  Edward,  Duke  of  Somerset,  had  herde  a 
fantastyk  prophecy  that  he  sholde  dy  under  a  Casteile, 
wherefore  he,  as  meche  as  in  him  was,  he  lete  the  King 
that  he  sholde  not  come  in  the  Casteile  of  Wynsore, 
dredynge  the  sayde  prophecy;  but  at  Seint  Albonys  there 


OLD  THINGS  73 

was  an  hostelry  havyng  the  sygne  of  a  Castelle,  and  before 
that  hostelry  he  was  slayne." 

"  His  badge  was  a  Portcullis,"  her  uncle  said,  when  she 
read  this  to  him,  "  so  it  was  natural  that  he  should  fall 
before  a  castle.  He  used  the  Beanstalk,  too,  and  if  his 
name  had  been  John,  a  pretty  thing  might  have  been  raised 
upon  it.  But  you're  divagating,  my  dear,"  he  continued, 
smiling — and  seldom  had  Mary  seen  him  in  a  better  humor 
— "you're  divagating,  whereas  I — I  believe  that  I  have 
solved  the  problem  of  the  Feathers." 

"  The  Prince  of  Wales's  ?    No ! " 

"  I  believe  so.  Of  course  there  is  no  truth  in  the  story 
which  traces  them  to  the  blind  King  of  Bohemia,  killed  at 
Crecy.  His  crest  was  two  vulture  wings." 

"  But  what  of  Arderne,  who  was  the  Prince's  sur- 
geon ?  "  Basset  objected.  "  He  says  clearly  that  the  Prince 
gained  it  from  the  King  of  Bohemia." 

"  Not  at  all !  "  John  Audley  replied  arrogantly — at  this 
moment  he  was  an  antiquary  and  nothing  more.  **'  Where 
is  the  Arderne  extract?  Listen.  '  Edward,  son  of  Edward 
the  King,  used  to  wear  such  a  feather,  and  gained  that 
feather  from  the  King  of  Bohemia,  whom  he  slew  at  Crecy, 
and  so  assumed  to  himself  that  feather  which  is  called  an 
ostrich  feather  which  the  first-named  most  illustrious  King, 
used  to  wear  on  his  crest.'  Now  who  was  the  first-named 
most  illustrious  King,  who  before  that  used  to  wear  it?" 

"The  King  of  Bohemia." 

"  Rubbish !  Arderne  means  his  own  King,  '  Edward  the 
King/  He  means  that  the  Black  Prince,  after  winning  his 
spurs  by  his  victory  over  the  Bohemian,  took  his  father's 
insignia.  He  had  only  been  knighted  six  weeks  and  waited 
to  wear  his  father's  crest  until  he  had  earned  it." 

"  By  Jove,  sir ! "  Basset  exclaimed,  "  I  believe  you  are 
right ! " 

"  Of  course  I  am !    The  evidence  is  all  that  way.    The 


74  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Black  Prince's  brothers  wore  it;  surely  not  because  their 
brother  had  done  something,  but  because  it  was  their 
father's  crest,  probably  derived  from  their  mother,  Philippa 
of  Hainault?  If  you  will  look  in  the  inventory  of  jewels 
made  on  the  usurpation  of  Henry  the  Fourth  you  will  see 
this  item,  '  A  collar  of  the  livery  of  the  Queen,  on  whom 
God  have  mercy,  with  an  ostrich.' " 

"  But  that,"  Basset  interposed,  "  was  Queen  Anne  of 
Bohemia — she  died  seven  years  before.  There  you  get 
Bohemia  again ! " 

"  Compare  this  other  entry,"  replied  the  antiquary,  un- 
moved :  " '  A  collar  of  the  livery  of  Queen  Anne,  of 
branches  of  rosemary/  Now  either  Queen  Anne  of  Bo- 
hemia had  two  liveries — which  is  unlikely — or  the  inven- 
tory made  by  order  of  Henry  IV.  quotes  verbatim  from 
lists  made  during  the  lifetime  of  Queen  Anne;  if  this  be 
the  case,  the  last  deceased  Queen,  on  whom  God  have  mercy, 
would  be  Philippa  of  Hainault;  and  we  have  here  a  clear 
statement  that  her  livery  was  an  ostrich,  of  which  ostrich 
her  husband  wore  a  feather  on  his  crest." 

Basset  clapped  his  hands.  Mary  beat  applause  on  the 
table.  "  Hurrah  !  "  she  cried.  "  Audley  for  ever !  " 

"  Miss  Audley,"  Basset  said,  "  Toft  shall  bring  in  hot 
water,  and  we  will  have  punch ! " 

"  Miss  Audley !  "  her  uncle  exclaimed,  with  a  wrinkling 
nose.  "Why  don't  you  call  her  Mary?  And  why,  child, 
don't  you  call  him  Peter?" 

Mary  curtsej'ed.  "  Why  not,  my  lord  ? "  she  said. 
"  Peter  it  shall  be — Peter  who  keeps  the  keys  that  you 
discover ! " 

And  Peter  laughed.  But  he  saw  that  she  used  his  name 
without  a  blush  or  a  tremor,  whereas  he  knew  that  if  he 
could  force  his  lips  to  frame  her  name,  the  word  would 
betray  him.  For  by  this  time,  from  his  seat  at  his  remote 
table,  and  from  the  ambush  of  his  book,  he  had  watched 
her  too  often  for  his  peace,  and  too  closely  not  to  know 


OLD  THINGS  75 

that  she  was  indifferent  to  him.  He  knew  that  at  the  best 
she  felt  a  liking  for  him,  the  growth  of  habit,  and  tinged, 
he  feared,  with  contempt. 

He  was  so  far  right  that  there  were  three  persons  in  the 
house  who  had  a  larger  share  of  the  girl's  thoughts  than 
he  had.  The  first  was  John  Audley.  He  puzzled  her. 
There  were  times  when  she  could  not  doubt  his  affection, 
times  when  he  seemed  all  that  she  could  desire,  kind,  good- 
humored,  frank,  engaged  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  in 
innocent  pursuits,  and  without  one  thought  beyond  them. 
But  touch  a  certain  spot,  approach  with  steps  ever  so  deli- 
cate a  certain  subject — Lord  Audley  and  his  title — and  his 
manner  changed,  the  very  man  changed,  he  became  secre- 
tive, suspicious,  menacing.  Nor,  however  quickly  she 
might  withdraw  from  the  danger-line,  could  the  harm  be 
undone  at  once.  He  would  remain  for  hours  gloomy  and 
thoughtful,  would  eye  her  covertly  and  with  suspicion, 
would  sit  silent  through  meals,  and  at  times  mutter  to 
himself.  More  rarely  he  would  turn  on  her  with  a  face 
which  rage  made  inhuman,  a  face  that  she  did  not  know, 
and  with  a  shaking  hand  he  would  bid  her  go — go,  and 
leave  the  room ! 

The  first  time  that  this  happened  she  feared  that  he 
might  follow  up  his  words  by  sending  her  away.  But 
nothing  ensued,  then  or  later.  For  a  while  after  each  out- 
burst he  would  appear  ill  at  ease.  He  would  avoid  her  eyes, 
and  look  away  from  her  in  a  manner  almost  as  unpleasant 
as  his  violence;  later,  in  a  shamefaced  way,  he  would  tell 
her  that  she  must  not  excite  him,  she  must  not  excite  him, 
it  was  bad  for  him.  And  the  man-servant  meeting  her  in 
the  hall,  would  take  the  liberty  of  giving  her  the  same 
advice. 

Toft,  indeed,  was  the  second  who  puzzled  her.  He  was 
civil,  with  the  civility  of  the  trained  servant,  but  always 
there  was  in  his  manner  a  reserve.  And  she  fancied  that 
he  watched  her.  If  she  left  the  house  and  glanced  back 


76  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

she  was  certain  to  see  his  face  at  a  window,  or  his  figure 
in  a  doorway.  Within  doors  it  was  the  same.  He  slept 
out,  living  with  his  wife  in  the  kitchen  wing,  which  had  a 
separate  entrance  from  the  courtyard.  But  he  was  every- 
where at  all  hours.  Even  his  master  appeared  uneasy  in 
his  presence,  and  either  broke  off  what  he  was  saying  when 
the  man  entered,  or  continued  the  talk  on  another  note. 
More  rarely  he  turned  on  Toft  and  without  rhyme  or  reason 
would  ask  him  harshly  what  he  wanted. 

The  third  person  to  share  Mary's  thoughts,  but  after  a 
more  pleasant  fashion,  was  Toft's  daughter,  Etruria.  "  I 
hope  you  will  like  her,  my  dear,"  John  Audley  had  said. 
"  She  will  give  you  such  attendance  as  you  require,  and 
will  share  the  south  wing  with  you  at  night.  The  two  bed- 
rooms there  are  on  a  separate  staircase.  I  sleep  above  the 
library  in  this  wing,  and  Peter  in  the  tower  room — we  have 
our  own  staircase.  I  have  brought  her  into  the  house  be- 
cause I  thought  you  might  not  like  to  sleep  alone  in  that 
wing/' 

Mary  had  thanked  him,  and  had  said  how  much  she  liked 
the  girl.  And  she  had  liked  her,  but  for  a  time  she  had  not 
understood  her.  Etruria  was  all  that  was  good  and  almost 
all  that  was  beautiful.  She  was  simple,  kindly,  helpful, 
having  the  wide  low  brow,  the  placid  eyes,  and  perfect  com- 
plexion of  a  Quaker  girl — and  to  add  to  these  attractions 
she  was  finely  shaped,  though  rather  plump  than  slender; 
and  she  was  incredibly  neat.  Nor  could  any  Quaker  girl 
have  been  more  gentle  or  more  demure. 

But  she  might  have  had  no  tongue,  she  was  so  loth  to 
use  it;  and  a  hundred  times  Mary  wondered  what  was 
behind  that  reticence.  Sometimes  she  thought  that  the 
girl  was  merely  stupid.  Sometimes  she  yoked  her  with  her 
father  in  the  suspicions  she  entertained  of  him.  More 
often,  moved  by  the  girl's  meek  eyes,  she  felt  only  a  vague 
irritation.  She  was  herself  calm  by  nature,  and  reserved  by 
training,  the  last  to  gossip  with  a  servant,  even  with  one 


OLD  THINGS'  77 

whose  refinement  appeared  innate.  But  Etruria's  dumb- 
ness was  beyond  her. 

One  day  in  a  research  which  she  was  making  she  fancied 
that  she  had  hit  on  a  discovery.  It  happened  that  Etruria 
came  into  the  room  at  the  moment,  and  in  the  fulness  of 
her  heart  Mary  told  her  of  it.  "  Etruria/'  she  said,  "  I've 
made  a  discovery  all  by  myself." 

"  Yes,  Miss." 

"Something  that  no  one  has  known  for  hundreds  of 
years !  Think  of  that !  " 

"Indeed,  Miss." 

Provoked,  Mary  took  a  new  line.  "  Etruria,"  she  asked, 
"  are  you  happy  ?  " 

The  girl  did  not  answer. 

"  Don't  you  hear  me  ?    I  asked  if  you  were  happy." 

"  I  am  content,  Miss." 

"  I  did  not  ask  that.    Are  you  happy  ?  " 

And  then,  moved  on  her  side,  perhaps,  by  an  impulse 
towards  confidence,  Etruria  yielded.  "  I  don't  think  that 
we  can  any  of  us  be  happy,  Miss,"  she  said,  "  with  so  much 
sorrow  about  us." 

"  You  strange  girl !  "  Mary  cried,  taken  aback.  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

But  Etruria  was  silent. 

"  Come,"  Mary  insisted.  "  You  must  tell  me  what  you 
mean." 

"  Well,  Miss,"  the  girl  answered  reluctantly,  "  I'm  sad 
and  loth  to  think  of  all  the  suffering  in  the  world:  It's 
natural  that  you  should  not  think  of  it,  but  I'm  of  the 
people,  and  I'm  sad  for  them." 

Balaam  when  the  ass  spoke  was  scarcely  more  surprised 
than  Mary.  "  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

The  girl  pointed  to  the  open  window.  "  We've  all  we 
could  ask,  Miss — light  and  air  and  birds'  songs  and  sun- 
shine. We've  all  we  need,  and  more.  But  I  come  of  those 
who  have  neither  light  nor  air,  nor  songs  nor  sunshine, 


78  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

who've  no  milk  for  children  nor  food  for  mothers!  Who, 
if  they've  work,  work  every  hour  of  the  day  in  dust  and 
noise  and  heat.  Who  are  half  clemmed  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end,  and  see  no  close  to  it,  no  hope,  no  finish  but 
the  pauper's  deals !  It's  for  them  I'm  sad,  Miss." 

"  Etruria !  " 

"  They've  no  teachers  and  no  time  to  care,"  Etruria  con- 
tinued in  desperate  earnest  now  that  the  floodgates  were 
raised.  "They're  just  tools  to  make  money,  and,  like  the 
tools,  they  wear  out  and  are  cast  aside!  For  there  are 
always  more  to  do  their  work,  to  begin  where  they  began, 
and  to  be  worn  out  as  they  were  worn  out ! " 

"  Don't !  "  Mary  cried. 

Etruria  was  silent,  but  two  large  tears  rolled  down  her 
face.  And  Mary  marvelled.  So  this  mild,  patient  girl, 
going  about  her  daily  tasks,  could  think,  could  feel,  could 
speak,  and  upon  a  plane  so  high  that  the  listener  was 
sensible  of  humiliation  as  well  as  surprise !  For  a  moment 
this  was  the  only  effect  made  upon  her.  Then  reflection 
did  its  part — and  memory.  She  recalled  that  glimpse  of 
the  under-world  which  she  had  had  on  her  journey  from 
London.  She  remembered  the  noisome  alleys,  the  cinder 
wastes,  the  men  toiling  half-naked  at  the  furnaces,  the 
pinched  faces  of  the  women;  and  she  remembered  also 
the  account  which  Lord  Audley  had  given  her  of  the  fierce 
contest  between  town  and  country,  plough  and  forge,  land- 
lord and  cotton-lord,  which  had  struck  her  so  much  at  the 
time. 

In  the  charms  of  her  new  life,  in  her  new  interests,  these 
things  had  faded  from  her  mind.  They  recurred  now,  and 
she  did  not  again  ask  Etruria  what  she  meant.  "  Is  it  as 
bad  as  that?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  not  as  bad  as  it  has  been,"  Etruria  answered. 
''  Three  years  ago  there  were  hundreds  of  thousands  out  of 
work.  There  are  thousands,  scores  of  thousands,  still;  and 
thousands  have  no  food  but  what's  given  them.  And 


OLD  THINGS  79 

charity  is  bitter  to  many,"  she  added,  "  and  the  poorhouse 
is  bitter  to  all." 

"  But  what  has  caused  things  to  be  so  bad  ?  " 

"  Some  say  one  thing  and  some  another.  But  most  that 
machines  lower  wages,  Miss,  and  the  bread-tax  raises  food." 

"  Ah !  "  Mary  said.  And  she  looked  more  closely  at  the 
girl  who  knew  so  much  that  was  at  odds  with  her  station. 

"  Others,"  Etruria  continued,  a  faint  color  in  her  cheeks, 
"  think  that  it  is  selfishness,  that  every  one  is  for  himself 
and  no  one  for  one  another,  and " 

"  Yes?  "  Mary  said,  seeing  that  she  hesitated. 

"  And  that  if  every  one  thought  as  much  of  his  neighbor 
as  of  himself,  or  even  of  his  neighbor  as  well  as  of  himself, 
it  would  not  be  machines  nor  corn-taxes  nor  poorhouses 
would  be  strong  enough  to  take  the  bread  out  of  the  chil- 
dren's mouths  or  the  work  out  of  men's  hands ! " 

Mary  had  an  inspiration.  "  Etruria,"  she  cried,  "  some 
one  has  been  teaching  you  this." 

The  girl  blushed.  "  Well,  Miss,"  she  said  simply,  "  it 
was  at  church  I  learned  most  of  it." 

"At  church?  What  church?  Not  Eiddsley?"  For 
it  was  to  Eiddsley,  to  a  service  as  dull  as  it  was  long,  that 
they  proceeded  on  Sundays  in  a  chaise  as  slow  as  the 
reader. 

"  No,  Miss,  not  Riddsley,"  Etruria  answered.  "  It's  at 
Brown  Heath  on  the  Chase.  But  it's  not  a  real  church, 
Miss.  It's  a  room." 

"  Oh !  "  Mary  replied.    "  A  meeting-house !  " 

For  some  reason  Etruria's  eyes  gleamed.  "  No,  Miss," 
she  said.  "  It's  the  curate  at  Eiddsley  has  a  service  in  a 
room  at  Brown  Heath  on  Thursdays." 

"  And  you  go  ?  " 

"When  I  can,  Miss." 

The  idea  of  attending  church  on  a  week-day  was  strange 
to  Mary;  as  strange  as  to  that  generation  was  the  zeal 
that  passed  beyond  the  common  channel  to  refresh  those 


go  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

whom  migrations  of  population  or  changes  in  industry  had 
left  high  and  dry.  The  Tractarian  movement  was  giving 
vigor  not  only  to  those  who  supported  it,  but  to  those  who 
withstood  it. 

"  And  you've  a  sermon  ?  "  Mary  said.  "  What  was  the 
text  last  Thursday,  Etruria?" 

The  girl  hesitated,  considered,  then  looked  with  appeal 
at  her  mistress.  She  clasped  her  hands.  "  '  Two  are  better 
than  one,' "  she  replied,  " '  because  they  have  good  reward 
for  their  labor.  For  if  they  fall,  one  will  lift  up  his  fellow, 
but  woe  to  him  that  is  alone  when  he  falleth,  for  he  hath 
not  another  to  lift  him  up.' " 

"  Gracious,  Etruria !  "  Mary  cried.  "  Is  that  in  the 
Bible?" 

Etruria  nodded. 

"And  what  did  your  preacher  say  about  it? " 

"  That  the  employer  and  the  workman  were  fellows,  and 
if  they  worked  together  and  each  thought  for  the  other  they 
would  have  a  good  reward  for  their  labor;  that  if  one  fell, 
it  was  the  duty  of  the  other  to  help  him  up.  And  again, 
that  the  land  and  the  mill  were  fellows — the  town  and  the 
country — and  if  they  worked  together  in  love  they  would 
have  a  good  return,  and  if  trouble  came  to  one  the  other 
should  bear  with  him.  But  all  the  same,"  Etruria  added 
timidly,  "  that  the  bread-taxes  were  wrong." 

"  Etruria,"  Mary  said.  "  To-morrow  is  Thursday.  I 
shall  go  with  you  to  Brown  Heath." 


CHAPTEE  X 

NEW  THINGS 

MARY  AUDLEY,  crossing  the  moor  to  a  week-day  service, 
was  but  one  of  many  who  in  the  'forties  were  venturing  on 
new  courses.  In  religion  there  were  those  who  fancied  that 
by  a  return  to  primitive  forms  they  might  recapture  the 
primitive  fervor;  and  those  again  who,  like  the  curate 
whom  Mary  was  going  to  hear,  were  bent  on  pursuing  the 
beaten  path  into  new  places.  Some  thought  that  they  had 
found  a  panacea  for  the  evils  of  the  day  in  education,  and 
put  their  faith  in  workmen's  institutes  and  night  schools. 
Others  were  satisfied  with  philanthropy,  and  proclaimed 
that  infants  of  seven  ought  not  to  toil  for  their  living,  that 
coal-pits  were  not  fit  places  for  women,  and  that  what  paid 
was  not  the  only  standard  of  life.  A  few  dreamt  of  a  new 
England  in  which  gentle  and  simple  were  to  mix  on  new- 
old  terms;  and  a  multitude,  shrewd  and  hard-headed,  be- 
lieved in  the  Corn  Law  League,  whose  speakers  travelled 
from  Manchester  to  carry  the  claims  of  cheap  bread  to 
butter  crosses  and  market  towns,  and  there  bearded  the 
very  landlord's  agent. 

The  truth  was  that  the  country  was  lying  sick  with  new 
evils,  and  had  perforce  to  find  a  cure,  whether  that  cure  lay 
in  faith,  or  in  the  primer,  or  in  the  Golden  Rule,  or  in 
Adam  Smith.  For  two  generations  men  had  been  quitting 
the  field  for  the  mill,  the  farm  for  the  coal-pit.  They  had 
followed  their  work  into  towns  built  haphazard,  that  grew 
presently  into  cities.  There,  short  of  light,  of  air,  of  water, 
lacking  decency,  lacking  even  votes — for  the  Reform  Bill, 
that  was  to  give  everything  to  everybody,  had  stopped  at  the 

ta 


82  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

masters — lacking  everything  but  wages,  they  swarmed  in 
numbers  stupendous  and  alarming  to  the  mind  of  that  day. 
And  then  the  wages  failed.    Machines  pushed  out  hands, 
though 

Tools  were  made,  and  born  were  hands, 
Every  farmer  understands. 

Machines  lowered  wages,  machines  glutted  the  markets. 
Men  could  get  no  work,  masters  could  sell  no  goods.  On 
the  top  of  this  came  bad  seasons  and  dear  bread.  Pres- 
ently hundreds  of  thousands  were  living  on  public  charity, 
long  lists  of  masters  were  in  the  Gazette.  In  the  gloomy 
cities  of  the  North,  masses  of  men  heaved  and  moaned  as 
the  sea  when  the  south-west  wind  falls  upon  it. 

All  but  the  most  thoughtless  saw  danger  as  well  as  un- 
happiness  in  this,  and  called  on  their  gods.  The  Chartists 
proclaimed  that  safety  lay  in  votes.  The  landed  interest 
thought  that  a  little  more  protection  might  mend  matters. 
The  Golden  Rulers  were  for  shorter  hours.  But  the  men 
who  were  the  loudest  and  the  most  confident  cried  that 
cheap  bread  would  mend  all.  The  poor,  they  said,  would 
have  to  eat  and  to  spend.  They  would  buy  goods,  the  glut 
would  cease.  The  wheels  would  turn  again,  there  would  be 
work  and  wages.  The  Golden  Age  would  return.  So 
preached  the  Manchester  men. 

In  the  meantime  the  doctors  wrangled,  and  the  patient 
grew  a  little,  not  much,  better.  And  Mary  Audley  and 
Etruria  walked  across  the  moorland  in  the  evening  sun- 
shine, with  a  light  breeze  stirring  the  bracken,  and  waves 
of  shadow  moving  athwart  the  stretches  of  purple  ling. 
They  seemed  very  far,  very  remote  from  the  struggle  for 
life  and  work  and  bread  that  was  passing  in  the  world 
below. 

Presently  they  dropped  into  a  fern-clad  dingle  and  saw 
below  them,  beside  the  rivulet  that  made  music  in  its 
bottom,  a  house  or  two.  Descending  farther,  they  came  on 


NEW  THINGS  83 

more  houses,  crawling  up  the  hill  slopes,  and  on  a  few 
potato  patches  and  ash-heaps.  As  the  sides  of  the  valley 
rose  higher  and  closed  in  above  the  walkers  cottages  fell 
into  lines  on  either  side  of  the  brook,  and  began  to  show 
one  behind  the  other  in  rough  terraces,  with  middens  that 
slid  from  the  upper  to  the  lower  level.  The  valley  bent 
to  the  left,  and  quickly  tall  chimneys  became  visible,  spring- 
ing from  a  huddle  of  mean  roofs  through  which  no  other 
building  of  size,  no  tower,  no  steeple,  rose  to  break  the 
ugly  sameness.  This  was  Brown  Heath. 

"  It's  a  rough  place,"  Etruria  said  as  they  picked  their 
way.  "  But  don't  be  afraid,  Miss.  I'm  often  passing,  and 
they  know  me." 

Still  it  was  a  rough  place.  The  roadway  was  a  cinder- 
track,  and  from  the  alleys  and  lanes  above  it  open  drains 
wormed  their  way  across  the  path  and  into  the  stream,  long 
grown  foul.  The  air  was  laden  with  smoke,  coal  dust  lay 
everywhere;  the  most  cleanly  must  have  despaired.  Men 
seated,  pipe  in  mouth,  on  low  walls,  watched  the  two  go  by 
— not  without  some  rude  banter;  frowsy  women  crouching 
on  door-steps  and  nursing  starveling  babes  raised  sullen 
faces.  Lads  in  clogs  made  way  for  them  unwillingly.  In 
one  place  a  crowd  seethed  from  a  side  street  and,  shouting 
and  struggling,  overflowed  the  roadway  before  them  and 
threatened  to  bar  their  path. 

"It's  a  dog-fight,"  Etruria  said.  "They  are  rare  and 
fond  of  them,  Miss.  We'd  best  get  by  quickly." 

They  passed  in  safety,  passed,  too,  a  brawl  between  two 
colliers,  the  air  about  them  thick  with  oaths,  passed  a  third 
eddy  round  two  women  fighting  before  a  public-house. 
"  The  chaps  are  none  so  gentle,"  Etruria  said,  falling  un- 
consciously into  a  commoner  way  of  speaking.  "  They're 
all  for  fighting,  dogs  or  men,  and  after  dark  I'm  not  say- 
ing we'd  be  safe.  But  we'll  be  over  the  moor  by  dusk, 
Miss." 

They  came,  as  she  spoke,  to  a  triangular  space,  sloping 


84  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

with  the  hill,  skirted  by  houses,  and  crossed  by  an  open 
sewer.  It  was  dreary  and  cinder-covered,  but  five  publics 
looked  upon  it  and  marked  it  for  the  centre  of  Brown 
Heath.  Etruria  crossed  the  triangle  to  a  building  a  little 
cleaner  than  its  neighbors;  it  was  the  warehouse,  she  told 
her  mistress,  of  a  sack-maker  who  had  failed.  She  entered, 
and  her  companion  followed  her. 

Mary  found  herself  in  a  bare  barn-like  room,  having  two 
windows  set  high  in  the  walls,  the  light  from  which  fell 
coldly  on  a  dozen  benches  ranged  one  behind  the  other,  but 
covering  only  a  portion  of  the  floor.  On  these  were  seated, 
when  they  entered,  about  twenty  persons,  mainly  women, 
but  including  three  or  four  men  of  the  miner  class.  No 
attempt  had  been  made  to  alter  the  character  of  the  place, 
and  of  formality  there  was  as  little.  The  two  had  barely 
seated  themselves  before  a  lean  young  man,  with  a  long  pale 
face  and  large  nose,  rose  from  the  front  bench,  and  stand- 
ing before  the  little  congregation,  opened  his  book.  He 
wore  shabby  black,  but  neither  surplice  nor  gown. 

The  service  lasted  perhaps  twenty  minutes,  and  Mary 
was  not  much  moved  by  it.  The  young  man's  voice  was 
weak,  the  man  himself  looked  under-fed.  She  noticed, 
however,  that  as  the  service  went  on  the  number  in  the 
room  grew,  and  when  it  closed  she  found  that  all  the  seats 
were  filled,  and  that  there  were  even  a  few  men — some  of 
them  colliers  fresh  from  the  pit — standing  at  the  back. 
Remembering  the  odd  text  that  the  clergyman  had  given 
out  the  week  before,  she  wondered  what  he  would  choose 
to-day,  and,  faintly  amused,  she  stole  a  glance  at  her  com- 
panion. But  Etruria's  rapt  face  was  a  reproach  to  her 
levity. 

The  young  clergyman  pushed  back  the  hair  from  his 
forehead.  His  posture  was  ungainly,  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  his  hands,  he  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it 
again.  Then  with  an  effort  he  began.  "  My  text,  my 
friends,"  he  said,  "  is  but  one  word,  '  Love.'  Where  will 


NEW  THINGS  85 

you  find  it  in  the  Scriptures?  In  every  chapter  and  in 
every  verse.  In  the  dark  days  of  old  the  order  was  '  Thou 
shalt  live ! '  The  new  order  in  these  days  is  *  Thou  shalt 
love ! ' J  He  began  by  describing  the  battle  of  life  in  the 
animal  and  vegetable  world,  where  all  things  lived  at  the 
cost  of  others;  and  he  admitted  that  the  struggle  for  life, 
for  bread,  for  work,  as  they  saw  it  around  them,  resembled 
that  struggle.  In  moving  terms  he  enlarged  on  the  dis- 
tress, on  the  vast  numbers  lately  living  on  the  rates,  on  the 
thousands  living,  where  even  the  rates  fell  short,  on  Gov- 
ernment aid.  He  described  the  fireless  homes,  the  foodless 
children,  the  strong  men  hopeless.  And  he  showed  them 
that  others  were  stricken,  that  masters  suffered,  tradesmen 
were  ruined,  the  country  languished.  "  The  worst  may  be 
past,"  he  said.  "  You  are  working  half-time,  you  are  living 
on  half-wages,  you  are  thankful  that  things  are  better." 
Then  he  told  them  that  for  his  part  he  did  not  presume  to 
say  what  was  at  the  root  of  these  unhappy  conditions,  but 
that  of  one  thing  he  felt  sure — and  this  was  his  message 
to  them — that  if  the  law  of  love,  if  the  golden  rule  of  pre- 
ferring another  to  one's  self,  if  the  precept  of  that  charity, 

Which  seeketh  not  itself  to  please 
Nor  for  itself  hath  any  care, 
But  for  another  gives  its  ease, 

if  that  were  followed  by  all,  then  all 

Might  build  a  heaven  in  hell's  despair. 

And  in  words  more  eloquent  than  he  had  yet  compassed 
he  begged  them  to  set  that  example  of  brotherhood,  in  the 
certainty  that  the  worst  social  evils,  nay,  all  evils  save  pain 
and  death,  would  be  cured  by  the  love  that  thought  for 
others,  that  in  the  master  preferred  the  servant's  welfare 
and  in  the  servant  put  first  his  master's  interests.  Finally 
he  quoted  his  old  text,  "  Let  two  work  together,  for  if  they 
fall,  one  will  lift  up  his  fellow ! " 


86  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

It  seemed  as  if  he  had  done.  He  was  silent ;  his  hearers 
waited.  Then  with  an  effort  he  continued : 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say  about  something  which  fell  from 
me  in  this  place  last  week.  While  I  did  not  venture,  un- 
skilled as  I  am,  to  say  where  lies  the  cause  of  our  distress, 
I  did  say  that  I  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  the  system 
which  taxes  the  bread  you  earn  in  the  sweat  of  your  brow, 
which  takes  a  disproportionate  part  from  the  scanty  crust  of 
the  widow  and  from  the  food  of  the  child,  was  in  accord- 
ance with  the  law  of  love.  I  repeat  that  now ;  and  because  I 
have  been  told  that  I  dare  not  say  in  the  pulpit  of  Riddsley 
church  what  I  say  here,  I  shall  on  the  first  opportunity 
state  my  belief  there.  You  may  ask  why  I  have  not  done 
so;  my  answer  is,  that  I  am  there  the  representative  of 
another,  whereas  in  this  voluntary  work  I  am  myself  more 
responsible.  In  saying  that  I  ask  you  to  judge  me,  as  we 
should  judge  all,  with  that  charity  which  believeth  no  evil." 

A  moment  later  Mary,  deeply  moved,  was  passing  out 
with  the  crowd.  As  she  stood,  caught  in  the  press  by  the 
door,  an  old  man  in  horn-rimmed  glasses,  who  was  waiting 
there,  held  out  his  hand.  She  was  going  to  take  it,  when 
she  saw  that  it  was  not  meant  for  her,  but  for  the  young 
clergyman  who  was  following  at  her  heels. 

"Master,  dunno  you  do  it,"  the  old  fellow  growled. 
"You'll  break  your  pick,  and  naught  gotten.  Naught 
gotten,  that'll  serve.  Your  gaffer'll  not  abide  it,  and  you'll 
lose  your  job !  " 

"  Would  you  have  me  take  it,"  the  young  man  answered, 
"  and  not  do  the  work,  Cluff  ?  Never  fear  for  me." 

"  Dunno  you  be  rash,  master ! "  the  other  rejoined, 
clutching  his  sleeve  and  detaining  him.  "  You  be 
sure " 

Mary  heard  no  more.  She  felt  Etruria's  hand  pressing 
her  arm.  "  We'd  best  lose  no  time,"  the  girl  whispered. 
And  she  drew  Mary  onward,  across  the  triangle  and  into 
the  lane  which  led  to  the  moor. 


NEW  THINGS  87 

"  Are  we  so  late  ?  "    The  sun  had  set,  but  it  was  still  light. 

"  We'd  best  hurry,"  Etruria  persisted,  increasing  her 
speed. 

Mary  looked  at  her  and  saw  that  she  was  troubled,  but 
at  the  moment  she  set  this  down  to  the  influence  of  the 
sermon,  and  her  own  mind  went  back  to  it.  "  I  am  glad 
you  brought  me,  Etruria,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  always  be 
glad  that  I  came." 

"  We'd  best  be  getting  home  now,"  was  Etruria's  only 
answer,  but  this  time  Mary's  ear  caught  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps behind  them,  and  she  turned.  The  young  clergyman 
was  hastening  after  them. 

"  Etruria !  "  he  cried. 

For  a  moment  Mary  fancied  that  Etruria  did  not  hear. 
The  girl  hurried  on.  But  Mary  saw  no  occasion  to  run 
away,  and  she  halted.  Then  Etruria,  with  a  gesture  of 
despair,  stopped. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  she  said. 

The  young  man  came  up  with  them.  His  head  was  bare, 
his  hat  was  in  his  hand,  his  long  plain  face  was  aglow  with 
the  haste  he  had  made.  He  had  heard  Etruria's  words, 
and  "  It  is  of  every  use,"  he  said. 

"  This  is — my  mistress,"  Etruria  said. 

"Miss  Audley?" 

"  I  am  Miss  Audley,"  Mary  announced,  wondering  much. 

"  I  thought  that  it  might  be  so,"  he  replied.  "  I  have 
waited  for  such  an  occasion.  I  am  Mr.  Colet,  the  curate 
at  Eiddsley.  Etruria  and  I  love  one  another,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  We  are  going  to  be  married,  if  ever  my  means 
allow  me  to  marry." 

"  No,  we  are  not,"  the  girl  rejoined  sharply.  "  Mr.  Colet 
knows  my  mind,"  she  continued,  her  eyes  turned  away.  "  I 
have  told  him  many  times  that  I  am  a  servant,  the  daughter 
of  a  servant,  in  a  different  class  from  his,  and  I'll  never  be 
the  one  to  ruin  him  and  be  a  disgrace  to  him!  I'll  never 
marry  him !  Never ! " 


88  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  And  I  have  told  Etruria,"  he  replied,  "  that  I  will 
never  take  that  answer.  We  love  one  another.  It  is 
nothing  to  me  that  she  is  a  servant.  My  work  is  to  serve. 
I  am  as  poor  as  it  is  possible  to  be,  with  as  poor  prospects 
as  it  is  possible  to  have.  I  shall  never  be  anything  but  what 
I  am,  and  I  shall  think  myself  rich  when  I  have  a  hundred 
pounds  a  year.  I  who  have  so  little,  who  look  for  so  little, 
am  I  to  give  up  this  happiness  because  Etruria  has  less? 
I,  too,  say,  Never !  " 

Mary,  standing  between  them,  did  not  know  what  to 
answer,  and  it  was  Etruria  who  replied.  "  It  is  useless," 
she  said.  And  then,  in  a  tone  of  honest  scorn,  "  Who  ever 
heard/'  she  cried,  "  of  a  clergyman  who  married  a  servant  ? 
Or  who  ever  heard  of  good  coming  of  it  ?  " 

Mary  had  an  inspiration.  "  Does  Etruria's  father 
know  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  knows  and  approves,"  the  young  man  replied,  his 
eyes  bent  fondly  on  his  mistress. 

Mary  too  looked  at  Etruria — beautiful,  patient,  a  serv- 
ant, loved.  And  she  wondered.  All  these  weeks  she  had 
been  rubbing  elbows  with  this  romance,  and  she  had  not 
discerned  it !  Now,  while  her  sympathies  flew  to  the  lover's 
side,  her  prejudices  rose  up  against  him.  They  echoed 
Etruria's  words,  "  Who  ever  heard  of  good  coming  of  such 
a  match?"  The  days  had  been,  as  Mary  knew,  when  the 
chaplain  had  married  the  lady's  maid.  But  those  days  were 
gone.  Meantime  the  man  waited,  and  she  did  not  know 
what  to  say. 

"After  all,"  she  said  at  last,  "it  is  for  Etruria  to 
decide." 

"  No,  it  is  for  us  both  to  decide/'  he  replied.  And  then, 
as  if  he  thought  that  he  had  sufficiently  stated  his  case,  "  I 
ask  your  pardon,  Miss  Audley,  for  intruding,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  am  keeping  you,  and  as  I  am  going  your  way 
that  is  needless.  I  have  had  a  message  from  a  sick  woman, 
and  I  am  on  my  way  to  see  her." 


NEW  THINGS  89 

He  took  permission  for  granted,  and  though  Etruria's 
very  shoulders  forbade  him,  he  moved  on  beside  them. 
"  Conditions  are  better  here  than  in  many  places,"  he  said, 
"  but  in  this  village  you  would  see  much  to  sadden  you." 

"  I  have  seen  enough,"  Mary  answered,  "  to  know  that." 

"  Ten  years  ago  there  was  not  a  house  here.  Now  there 
is  a  population  of  two  thousand,  no  church,  no  school,  no 
gentry,  no  one  of  the  better  class.  There  is  a  kind  of 
club,  a  centre  of  wild  talk;  better  that,  perhaps,  than 
apathy." 

"Is  it  in  Eiddsley  parish?"  Mary  asked.  They  were 
nearly  clear  of  the  houses,  and  the  slopes  of  the  hill,  pale 
green  in  the  peaceful  evening  light,  began  to  rise  on  either 
side.  It  was  growing  dusk,  and  from  the  moorland  above 
came  the  shrill  cries  of  plovers. 

"Yes,  it  is  in  Riddsley  parish,"  he  answered,  "but 
many  miles  from  the  town,  and  as  aloof  from  it — Ridds- 
ley is  purely  agricultural — as  black  from  white.  In  such 
places  as  this — and  there  are  many  of  them  in  Stafford- 
shire, as  raw,  as  rough,  and  as  new — there  is  work  for 
plain  men  and  plain  women.  In  these  swarming  hives 
there  is  no  room  for  any  refinement  but  true  refinement. 
And  the  Church  must  learn  to  do  her  work  with  plain  tools, 
or  the  work  will  pass  into  other  hands." 

"  You  may  cut  cheese  with  an  onion  knife,"  Etruria  said 
coldly.  "  I  don't  know  that  people  like  it." 

"  I  know  nothing  better  than  onions  in  the  right  place," 
he  replied. 

"  That's  not  in  cheese,"  she  rejoined,  to  Mary's  amuse- 
ment. 

"  The  poor  get  little  cheese,"  he  said,  "  and  the  main 
thing  is  to  cut  their  bread  for  them.  But  here  I  must 
leave  you.  My  errand  is  to  that  cottage." 

He  pointed  to  a  solitary  house,  standing  a  few  score 
paces  above  the  road  on  the  hillside.  Mary  shook  hands 
with  him,  but  Etruria  turned  her  shoulder  resolutely. 


go  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Good-bye,  Etruria,"  lie  said.  And  then  to  Mary,  "  I 
hope  that  I  have  made  a  friend?  " 

"  I  think  you  have/'  she  answered.  "  I  am  sure  that  you 
deserve  one." 

He  colored,  raised  his  hat,  and  turned  away,  and  the 
two  went  on,  without  looking  back;  darkness  was  coming 
apace,  and  they  were  still  two  miles  from  home.  Mary  kept 
silence,  prudently  considering  how  she  should  deal  with 
the  matter,  and  what  she  should  say  to  her  companion.  As 
it  fell  out,  events  removed  her  difficulty.  They  had  not 
gone  more  than  two  hundred  yards,  and  were  still  some 
way  below  the  level  of  the  Chase,  when  a  cry  reached  them. 
It  came  out  of  the  dusk  behind  them,  and  might  have  been 
the  call  of  a  curlew  on  the  moor.  But  first  one,  and  then 
the  other  stood.  They  turned,  and  listened,  and  suddenly 
Etruria,  more  anxious  or  sharper  of  eye  than  her  mistress, 
uttered  a  cry  and  broke  away  at  a  run  across  the  sloping 
turf  towards  the  solitary  cottage.  Alarmed,  Mary  looked 
intently  in  that  direction,  and  made  out  three  or  four 
figures  struggling  before  the  door  of  the  house.  She 
guessed  then  that  the  clergyman  was  one  of  them,  and  that 
the  cry  had  come  from  him,  and  without  a  thought  for 
herself  she  set  off,  running  after  Etruria  as  fast  as  she 
could. 

Twice  Etruria  screamed  as  she  ran,  and  Mary  echoed  the 
cry.  She  saw  that  the  man  was  defending  himself  against 
the  onset  of  three  or  four — she  could  hear  the  clatter  of 
sticks  on  one  another.  Then  she  trod  on  her  skirt  and  fell. 
When  she  had  got,  breathless,  to  her  feet  again,  the  clergy- 
man was  down  and  the  men  appeared  to  be  raining  blows 
on  him.  Etruria  shrieked  once  more  and  the  next  moment 
was  lost  amid  the  moving  figures,  the  brandished  sticks, 
the  struggle. 

Mary  ran  on  desperately.  She  caught  sight  of  the  girl 
on  her  knees  over  the  fallen  man,  she  saw  her  fend  off  more 
than  one  blow,  she  heard  more  than  one  blow  fall  with  a 


NEW  THINGS  91 

eickening  thud.  She  came  up  to  them.  With  passion  that 
drove  out  fear,  she  seized  the  arm  of  the  nearest  and 
dragged  him  back. 

"  You  coward ! "  she  cried.  "  You  coward !  I  am  Miss 
Audley!  Do  you  hear!  Leave  him!  Leave  him,  I 
eay!" 

Her  appearance,  the  surprise,  checked  the  man;  her  fear- 
lessness, perhaps  her  name,  gave  the  others  pause.  They 
retreated  a  step.  The  man  she  had  grasped  shook  himself 
free,  but  did  not  attempt  to  strike  her.  "  Oh,  d — n  the 
Bcreech-owls !  "  he  cried.  "  The  place  is  alive  with  them ! 
Hold  your  noise,  you  fools!  We'll  have  the  parish  on 
us!" 

"  I  am  Miss  Audley ! "  Mary  repeated,  and  in  her  in- 
dignation she  advanced  on  him.  "  How  dare  you  ? " 
Etruria,  still  on  her  knees,  continued  to  shriek. 

"  You're  like  to  get  a  wipe  over  the  head,  dang  you ! " 

the  man  growled,  "  whoever  you  be !  Go  to and  mind 

your  own  brats!  He'll  know  better  now  than  to  preach 
against  them  as  he  gets  his  living  by !  You  be  gone !  " 

But  Mary  stood  her  ground.  She  declared  afterwards 
that,  brutally  as  the  man  spoke,  the  fight  had  gone  out  of 
him.  Etruria,  on  the  contrary,  maintained  that,  finding 
only  women  before  them,  the  ruffians  would  have  murdered 
them.  Fortunately,  while  the  event  hung  in  the  balance, 
"  What  is  it  ? "  some  one  shouted  from  the  road  below. 
"  What's  the  matter  there?  " 

"  Murder !  "  cried  Etruria  shrilly.    "  Help  I    Help !  " 

"  Help  I "  cried  Mary.  She  still  kept  her  face  to  the 
men,  but  for  the  first  time  she  began  to  know  fear. 

Footsteps  thudded  softly  on  the  turf,  figures  came  into 
view,  climbing  the  slope.  It  needed  no  more.  With  a 
volley  of  oaths  the  assailants  turned  tail  and  made  off.  In 
a  trice  they  were  round  the  corner  of  the  house  and  lost  in 
the  dusk. 

A  moment  later  two  men,  equally  out  of  breath  and  each 


92  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

carrying  a  gun,  reached  the  spot.  "  Well !  "  said  the  bigger 
of  the  two,  "What  is  it?  " 

He  spoke  as  if  he  had  not  come  very  willingly,  but  Mary 
did  not  notice  this.  The  crisis  over,  her  knees  shook,  she 
could  barely  stand,  she  could  not  speak.  She  pointed  to  the 
faUen  man,  over  whom  Etruria  still  crouched,  her  hair 
dragged  down  about  her  shoulders,  her  neckband  torn,  a 
ghastly  blotch  on  her  white  cheek. 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  the  new-comer  asked  in  a  different  tone. 

"  Ay,  dead !  "  Etruria  echoed.    "  Dead ! " 

Fortunately  the  curate  gave  the  lie  to  the  word.  He 
groaned,  moved,  with  an  effort  he  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow.  "  I'm— all  right !  "  he  gasped.  "  All  right ! " 

Etruria  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  stepped  back  as  if  the 
ground  had  opened  before  her. 

"  I'm  not— hurt,"  Colet  added  weakly. 

But  it  was  evident  that  he  was  hurt,  even  if  no  bones 
were  broken.  When  they  came  to  lift  him  he  could  not 
stand,  and  he  seemed  to  be  uncertain  where  he  was.  After 
watching  him  a  moment,  "  He  should  see  a  doctor,"  said 
the  man  who  had  come  up  so  opportunely.  "  Fetch,"  he 
continued,  addressing  his  companion,  who  wore  a  game- 
keeper's dress,  "  we  must  carry  him  to  the  trap  and  get  him 
down  to  Brown  Heath.  Who  is  he,  do  you  know?  He 
looks  like  a  parson." 

"  He's  Mr.  Colet  of  Riddsley,"  Mary  said. 

The  man  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "  Hallo !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. And  then  in  the  same  tone  of  surprise,  "Miss 
Audley !  "  he  said.  "  At  this  time  of  night?  " 

Mary  collected  herself  with  an  effort.  "  Yes,"  she  said, 
"  and  very  fortunatety,  for  if  we  had  not  been  here  the  men 
would  have  murdered  him.  As  it  is,  you  share  the  credit 
of  saving  him,  Lord  Audley." 

''  The  credit  of  saving  you  is  a  good  deal  more  to  me,"  he 
answered  gallantly.  "  I  did  not  think  that  we  should  meet 
after  this  fashion." 


CHAPTER  XI 

TACT  AND   TEMPER 

HE  looked  at  Etruria,  and  Mary  explained  who  she  was. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  she  is  hurt." 

The  girl's  temple  was  bruised  and  there  was  blood  on  her 
cheek;  more  than  one  of  the  blows  aimed  at  her  lover  had 
fallen  on  her.  But  she  said  eagerly  that  it  was  "  Nothing ! 
Nothing!" 

"  Are  you  sure,  Etruria  ?  "  Mary  asked  with  concern. 

"  It  is  nothing,  indeed,  Miss,"  the  girl  repeated.  She 
was  trying  with  shaking  fingers  to  put  up  her  hair. 

"  Then  the  sooner,"  Audley  rejoined,  "  we  get  this — this 
gentleman  to  my  dogcart,  the  better.  Take  his  other  arm, 
Fetch.  Miss  Audley,  can  you  carry  my  gun? — it  is  not 
loaded.  And  you,"  he  continued  to  Etruria,  "if  you  are 
able,  take  Fetch's." 

They  took  the  guns,  and  the  little  procession  wound 
down  the  path  to  the  road,  where  they  found  a  dogcart 
awaiting  them,  and,  peering  from  the  cart,  two  setters, 
whining  and  fretting.  The  dogs  were  driven  under  the 
seat,  and  the  clergyman,  still  muttering  that  he  was  all 
right,  was  lifted  in.  "  Steady  him,  Fetch,"  Audley  said ; 
"  and  do  you  drive  slowly,"  he  added,  to  the  other  man. 
"  You  will  be  at  the  surgeon's  at  Brown  Heath  in  twenty 
minutes.  Stay  with  him,  Fetch,  and  send  the  cart  back 
for  me." 

"  But  are  you  not  going  ?  "  Mary  cried. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  leave  you  in  the  dark  with  only  your 
maid,"  he  answered  with  severity.  "  One  adventure  a  night 
is  enough,  Miss  Audley." 

93 


94  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

She  murmured  a  word  or  two,  but  submitted.  The 
struggle  had  shaken  her;  she  could  still  see  the  men's 
savage  faces,  still  hear  the  thud  of  their  blows.  And  she 
and  Etruria  had  nearly  a  mile  to  go  before  they  reached 
the  park. 

When  they  were  fairly  started,  "  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Mary  told  the  story,  but  said  no  word  of  Etruria's 
romance. 

"  Then  you  were  not  with  him  when  they  set  on  him  ?  " 

"  No,  we  had  parted." 

"  And  you  went  back  ?  " 

"Of  course  we  did!  " 

"  It  was  imprudent,"  he  said,  "  very  imprudent.  If  we 
had  not  come  up  at  that  moment  you  might  have  been 
murdered." 

"And  if  we  had  not  gone  back,  Mr.  Colet  might  have 
been  murdered ! "  she  answered.  "  What  he  had  done  to 
offend  them " 

"  I  think  I  can  tell  you  that.  He's  the  curate  at  Ridds- 
ley,  isn't  he?  Who's  been  preaching  up  cheap  bread  and 
preaching  down  the  farmers  ?  " 

"Perhaps  so,"  Mary  answered.  "He  may  be.  But  is 
he  to  be  murdered  for  that?  From  your  tone  one  might 
think  so." 

"  No,"  he  replied  slowly,  "  he  is  not  to  be  murdered  for 
it.  But  whether  he  is  wise  to  preach  cheap  bread  to  starv- 
ing men,  whether  he  is  wise  to  tell  them  that  they  would 
have  it  but  for  this  man  or  that  man,  this  class  or  that 
class — is  another  matter." 

She  was  not  convinced — the  sermon  had  keyed  her 
thoughts  to  a  high  pitch.  But  he  spoke  reasonably,  and 
he  had  the  knack  of  speaking  with  authority,  and  she  said 
no  more.  And  on  his  side  he  had  no  wish  to  quarrel.  He 
had  come  down  to  Eiddsley  partly  to  shoot,  partly  to  look 
into  the  political  situation,  but  a  little — there  was  no 


TACT  AND  TEMPER  95 

denying  it — to  learn  how  Mary  Audley  fared  with  her 
uncle. 

For  he  had  thought  much  of  her  since  they  had  parted, 
and  much  of  the  fact  that  she  was  John  Audley's  heir. 
Her  heauty,  her  spirit,  her  youth,  had  caught  his  fancy. 
He  had  looked  forward  to  renewing  his  acquaintance  with 
her,  and  he  was  in  no  mood,  now  he  saw  her,  to  spoil  their 
meeting  by  a  quarrel.  He  thought  Colet,  whose  doings  had 
heen  reported  to  him,  a  troublesome,  pestilent  fellow,  and 
he  was  not  sorry  that  he  had  got  his  head  broken.  But  he 
need  not  tell  her  that.  Circumstances  had  favored  him  in 
bringing  them  together  and  giving  him  the  beau  role,  and 
he  was  not  going  to  cross  his  luck. 

So,  "  Fire  is  an  excellent  thing  of  course,"  he  continued 
with  an  air  of  moderation,  "but,  believe  me,  ifs  not  safe 
amid  young  trees  in  a  wind.  Whatever  your  views,  to  ex- 
press them  in  all  companies  may  be  honest,  but  is  not  wise. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  a  parson  is  tried.  He  sees  the  trouble. 
He  is  not  always  the  best  judge  of  the  remedy.  However, 
enough  of  that.  We  shall  agree  at  least  in  this,  that  our 
meetings  are  opportune?" 

"  Most  opportune,"  Mary  answered.  "  And  from  my 
point  of  view  very  fortunate !  " 

"There  really  is  a  sort  of  fate  in  it.  What  but  fate 
could  have  brought  about  our  meeting  at  the  Hotel  Lam- 
bert? What  but  fate  could  have  drawn  us  to  the  same 
spot  on  the  Chase  to-night?  " 

There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  brought  the  blood  to 
her  cheek  and  warned  her  to  keep  to  the  surface  of  things. 
"  The  chance  that  men  call  fate/*  she  answered  lightly. 

"Or  the  fate  that  fools  call  chance,"  he  urged,  half  in 
jest,  half  in  earnest.  "  We  have  met  by  chance  once,  and 
once  again — with  results!  The  third  time — what  will  the 
third  time  bring?  I  wonder." 

"  Not  a  fright  like  this,  I  hope ! "  Mary  answered,  re- 
maining cheerfully  matter  of  fact.  "  Or  if  it  does,"  with  a 


96  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

flash  of  laughter,  "  I  trust  that  the  next  time  you  will  come 
up  a  few  moments  earlier ! " 

"  Ungrateful ! » 

"  I  ?  "  she  replied.  "  But  it  was  Etruria  who  was  in 
danger ! " 

For  the  peril  had  left  her  with  a  sense  of  exhilaration, 
of  lightness,  of  ease.  She  was  pleased  to  feel  that  she 
could  hold  her  own  with  him,  relieved  that  she  was  not 
afraid  of  him.  And  she  was  glad — she  was  certainly  glad 
— to  see  him  again.  If  he  were  inclined  to  make  the  most 
of  his  advantage,  well,  a  little  gallantry  was  quite  in  the 
picture;  she  was  not  deceived,  and  she  was  not  offended. 
While  he  on  his  side,  as  they  walked  over  the  moor,  thought 
of  her  as  a  clever  little  witch  who  knew  her  value  and 
could  keep  her  head;  and  he  liked  her  none  the  less 
for  it. 

When  they  came  at  last  to  the  gap  in  the  wall  that 
divided  the  Chase  from  the  park,  a  figure,  dimly  outlined, 
stood  in  the  breach  waiting  for  them.  "  Is  that  you  ?  "  a 
voice  asked. 

The  voice  was  Basset's,  and  Mary's  spirits  sank.  She 
felt  that  the  meeting  was  ill-timed.  "  Yes,"  she  answered. 

Unluckily,  Peter  was  one  of  those  whose  anxiety  takes 
an  irritable  form.  "  What  in  the  world  has  happened  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  I  couldn't  believe  that  you  were  still  out.  It's 
really  not  safe.  Hallo !  "  breaking  off  and  speaking  in  a 
different  tone,  "  is  some  one  with  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  Mary  said.  They  were  within  touch  now  and 
could  see  one  another.  "  We  have  had  an  adventure.  Lord 
Audley  was  passing,  he  came  to  our  rescue,  and  has  very 
kindly  seen  us  home." 

"Lord  Audley! "  Basset  was  taken  by  surprise  and  his 
tone  was  much  as  if  he  had  said,  "  The  devil !  " 

"By  good  fortune,  Basset,"  Audley  replied.  He  may 
have  smiled  in  the  darkness — we  cannot  say.  "  I  was 
returning  from  shooting,  heard  cries  for  help,  and  found 


TACT  AND  TEMPER  97 

Miss  Audley  playing  the  knight-errant,  encircled  by  pros- 
trate bodies !  " 

Basset  could  not  frame  a  word,  so  great  was  his  surprise, 
so  overwhelming  his  chagrin.  Was  this  man  to  spring  up 
at  every  turn?  To  cross  him  on  every  occasion?  To  put 
him  in  the  background  perpetually?  To  intrude  even  on 
the  peace  and  fellowship  of  the  Gatehouse?  It  was  in- 
tolerable ! 

When  he  did  not  answer,  "  It  was  not  I  who  was  the 
knight-errant,"  Mary  said.  "  It  was  Etruria.  She  is  a 
little  the  worse  for  it,  I  fear,  and  the  sooner  she  is  in  bed 
the  better.  As  Mr.  Basset  is  here,"  she  continued,  turning 
to  Audley,  "  we  must  not  take  you  farther.  Your  cart  is 
no  doubt  waiting  for  you.  But  you  will  allow  us  to  thank 
you  again.  We  are  most  grateful  to  you — both  Etruria 
and  I." 

She  spoke  more  warmly,  perhaps  she  let  her  hand  rest 
longer  in  his,  to  make  up  for  Basset's  silence.  For  that 
silence  provoked  her.  She  had  gathered  from  many  things 
that  Basset  did  not  love  the  other;  but  to  stand  mute  and 
churlish  on  such  an  occasion,  and  find  no  word  of 
acknowledgment — this  was  too  bad. 

And  Basset  knew,  he  too  knew  that  he  ought  to  thank 
Audley.  But  the  black  dog  was  on  his  back,  and  while  he 
hesitated,  the  other  made  his  adieux.  He  said  a  pleasant 
word  to  Etruria,  tossed  a  careless  "  Good-night "  to  the 
other  man,  turned  away,  and  was  gone. 

For  awhile  the  three  who  remained  trudged  homewards 
in  silence.  Then,  "  What  happened  to  you  ?  "  Basset  asked 
grudgingly. 

Vexed  and  indignant,  Mary  told  the  story. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  knew  Mr.  Colet !  " 

"  When  a  man  is  being  murdered,"  she  retorted,  "  one 
does  not  wait  for  an  introduction." 

He  was  a  good  fellow,  but  jealousy  was  hot  within  him, 
and  he  could  not  bridle  his  tongue.  "  Oh,  but  murdered?  " 


98  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

he  said.  "Isn't  that  rather  absurd?  Who  would  murder 
Colet?" 

Mary  did  not  deign  to  reply. 

Baffled,  he  sought  for  another  opening.  "  I  do  not  know 
what  your  uncle  will  say." 

"  Because  we  rescued  Mr.  XJolet?  And  perhaps  saved  his 
life?" 

"  No,  but " 

"  Or  because  Lord  Audley  rescued  us  ?  " 

"He  will  certainly  not  be  pleased  to  hear  that,"  he 
retorted  maliciously.  He  knew  that  he  was  misbehaving, 
but  he  could  not  refrain.  "  If  you  take  my  advice  you  will 
not  mention  it." 

"I  shall  tell  him  the  moment  I  reach  the  house,"  she 
declared. 

"  You  will  be  very  unwise  if  you  do." 

"  I  shall  be  honest  at  least !  For  the  rest  I  would  rather 
not  discuss  the  matter,  Mr.  Basset.  I  am  a  good  deal 
shaken  by  what  we  have  gone  through,  and  I  am  very 
tired." 

He  muttered  humbly  that  he  was  sorry — that  he  only 
meant 

"Please  leave  it  there,"  she  said.  "Enough  has  been 
said." 

Too  late  the  anger  and  the  spirit  died  out  of  the  unlucky 
man,  and  he  would  have  grovelled  before  her,  he  would 
have  done  anything  to  earn  his  pardon.  But  Etruria's 
presence  tied  his  tongue,  and  gloomy  and  wretched — oh, 
why  had  he  not  gone  farther  to  meet  them,  why  had  he 
not  been  the  one  to  rescue  her? — he  walked  on  beside  them, 
cursing  his  unhappy  temper.  It  was  dark,  the  tired  girls 
lagged,  Etruria  hung  heavily  on  her  mistress's  arm;  he 
longed  to  help  them.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  offer.  He 
knew  too  well  that  Mary  would  reject  the  offer. 

Etruria  had  her  own  dreams,  and  in  spite  of  an  aching 
head  was  happy.  But  to  Mary,  fatigued  by  the  walk,  and 


TACT  AND  TEMPER  99 

vexed  by  Basset's  conduct,  the  way  seemed  endless.  At 
last  the  house  loomed  dark  above  them,  their  steps  rang 
hard  on  the  flagged  court  The  outer  door  stood  ajar,  and 
entering,  they  found  a  lamp  burning  in  the  hall;  but  the 
silence  which  prevailed,  above  and  below,  struck  a  chill. 
Silence  and  an  open  door  go  ill  together. 

Etruria  at  Mary's  bidding  went  up  at  once  to  her  room. 
Basset  called  angrily  for  Toft.  But  no  Toft  appeared,  and 
Mary,  resentment  still  hot  in  her,  opened  the  door  of  the 
library  and  went  in  to  see  her  uncle.  She  felt  that  the 
sooner  her  story  was  told  the  better. 

But  the  library  was  empty.  Lights  burned  on  the  sev- 
eral tables,  the  wood  fire  smouldered  on  the  hearth,  the 
tall  clock  ticked  in  the  silence,  the  old  hound  flopped  his 
tail.  But  John  Audley  was  not  there. 

"  Where  is  my  uncle  ?  "  she  asked,  as  she  stood  in  the 
open  doorway. 

Basset  looked  over  her  shoulder.  He  saw  that  the  room 
was  empty.  "  He  may  have  gone  to  look  for  us." 

"And  Toft?" 

"  And  Toft,  too,  I  suppose." 

"But  why  should  my  uncle  go  to  look  for  us?"  she 
asked,  aghast  at  the  thought — he  troubled  himself  so  little 
for  others,  he  lived  so  completely  his  own  life ! 

"  He  might,"  Basset  replied.  He  stood  for  a  moment, 
thinking.  Then — for  the  time  they  had  forgotten  their 
quarrel — "  You  had  better  get  something  to  eat  and  go  to 
bed,"  he  said.  "  I  will  send  Mrs.  Toft  to  you." 

She  had  not  the  strength  to  resist.  "Very  well,"  she 
said.  "  Are  you  going  to  look  for  them  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Toft  will  know  where  they  are." 

She  took  her  candle  and  went  slowly  up  the  narrow 
winding  staircase  that  led  to  her  room  and  to  Etruria's. 
As  she  passed,  stair  by  stair,  the  curving  wainscot  of  dull 
wood  which  so  many  generations  had  rubbed,  she  carried 
with  her  the  picture  of  Basset  standing  in  thought  in  the 


ioo  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

middle  of  the  hall,  his  eyes  on  the  doorway  that  gaped  on 
the  night.  Then  a  big  man  with  a  genial  face  usurped  his 
place ;  and  she  smiled  and  sighed. 

A  moment  later  she  went  into  Etruria's  room  to  learn 
how  she  was,  and  caught  the  girl  rising  from  her  knees. 
"  Oh,  Miss,"  she  said,  coloring  as  she  met  Mary's  eyes, 
"  if  we  had  not  been  there ! " 

"  And  yet — you  won't  marry  him,  you  foolish  girl  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  no !  " 

"  Although  you  love  him !  " 

"  Love  him ! "  Etruria  murmured,  her  face  burning. 
"It  is  because  I  love  him,  Miss,  that  I  will  never,  never 
marry  him." 

Mary  wondered.  "  And  yet  you  love  him  ? "  she  said, 
raising  the  candle  so  that  its  light  fell  on  the  other's  face. 

Etruria  looked  this  way  and  that  way,  but  there  was  no 
escape.  In  a  very  small  voice  she  said, 

"  Love  seeketh  not  itself  to  please 
Nor  for  itself  hath  any  care !  " 

She  covered  her  hot  cheeks  with  her  hands.  But  Mary 
took  away  the  hands  and  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  Miss !  "  Etruria  exclaimed. 

Mary  went  out  then,  but  on  the  threshold  of  her  own 
room  she  paused  to  snuff  her  candle.  "  So  that  is  love/' 
she  thought.  "  It's  very  interesting,  and — and  rather 
beautiful!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  YEW  WALK 

BASSET  had  been  absent  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and 
returning  at  sunset  had  learned  that  Miss  Audley  had  not 
come  back  from  Brown  Heath.  The  servant  had  hinted 
alarm — the  Chase  was  lonely,  the  hour  late;  and  Basset 
had  hurried  off  without  more,  not  doubting  that  John 
Audley  was  in  the  house. 

Now  he  was  sure  that  John  Audley  had  been  abroad  at 
the  time,  and  he  suspected  that  Toft  had  known  it,  and 
had  kept  it  from  him.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  thought, 
then  he  crossed  the  court  to  Toft's  house.  Mrs.  Toft  was 
cooking  something  savory  in  a  bonnet  before  the  fire,  and 
the  contrast  between  her  warm  cheerful  kitchen  and  the 
stillness  of  the  house  from  which  he  came  struck  him  pain- 
fully. He  told  her  that  her  daughter  had  received  a  blow 
on  the  head,  and  that  Miss  Audley  needed  supper — she  had 
better  attend  to  them. 

Mrs.  Toft  was  a  stout  woman,  set  by  a  placid  and  even 
temper  above  small  surprises.  She  looked  at  the  clock,  a 
fork  in  her  hand.  "  I  can't  hurry  it,  Mr.  Basset,"  she 
said.  "You  may  be  Sir  Robert  Peel  himself,  but  meat's 
your  master  and  will  have  its  time.  A  knock  on  the 
head  ?  "  she  continued,  with  a  faint  stirring  of  anxiety. 
"  You  don't  say  so  ?  Lor,  Mr.  Basset,  who'd  go  to  touch 
Etruria?" 

"  You'd  better  go  and  see." 

"But  where's  Toft?" 

Basset's  temper  gave  way  at  that.  "  God  knows !  "  he 
said.  "  He  ought  to  be  here — and  he's  not !  "  He  went  out. 

101 


102  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Toft  stared  after  him,  and  by  and  by  she  let  down 
her  skirt  and  prepared  to  go  into  the  house.  "  On  the 
head  ?  "  she  ruminated.  "  Well,  'Truria  ?s  a  tidy  lot  of 
hair!  And  I  will  say  this,  if  there's  few  points  a  man 
gives  a  woman,  hair's  one  of  them." 

Meanwhile  Basset  had  struck  across  the  court  and  taken 
in  the  darkness  the  track  which  led  in  the  direction  of  the 
Great  House.  The  breeze,  light  but  of  an  autumn  cold- 
ness, swept  the  upland,  whispering  through  the  dying  fern, 
and  rustling  in  the  clumps  of  trees  by  which  he  steered  his 
course.  He  listened  more  than  once,  hoping  that  he  might 
hear  approaching  footsteps,  but  he  heard  none,  and  pres- 
ently he  came  to  the  yew-trees  that  masked  the  entrance  to 
the  gardens. 

The  trees  formed  a  wall  of  blackness  exceeding  that  of 
the  darkest  night,  and  Basset  hesitated  before  he  plunged 
into  it.  The  growth  of  a  century  had  long  trespassed  on 
the  walk,  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  long,  which  led 
through  the  yew-wood,  and  had  been  in  its  time  a  stately 
avenue  trimmed  to  the  neatness  of  a  bowling  green.  Now 
it  was  little  better  than  a  tunnel,  dark  even  at  noon,  and 
at  night  bristling  with  a  hundred  perils.  Basset  peered 
into  the  blackness,  listened,  hesitated.  But  he  was  honestly 
anxious  on  John  Audley's  account,  and  contenting  himself 
with  exclaiming  that  the  man  was  mad,  he  began  to  grope 
his  way  along  the  path. 

It  was  no  pleasant  task.  If  he  swerved  from  his  course 
he  stumbled  over  roots,  branches  swept  his  cheek,  jagged 
points  threatened  his  eyes,  and  more  than  once  he  found 
himself  in  the  hedge.  Half-way  through  the  wood  he  came 
to  a  circular  clearing,  some  twenty  yards  across ;  and  here  a 
glimmer  of  light  enabled  him  to  avoid  the  crumbling  stone 
Butterfly  that  crouched  on  its  mouldering  base  in  the  centre 
of  the  clearing — much  as  a  spider  crouches  in  its  web.  It 
seemed  in  that  dim  light  to  be  the  demon  of  this  under- 
world, a  monster,  a  thing  of  evil. 


THE  YEW  WALK  103 

The  same  gleam,  however,  disclosed  the  opposite  open- 
ing, and  for  another  seventy  yards  he  groped  his  way  on- 
ward, longing  to  be  clear  of  the  stifling  air,  and  the  brood- 
ing fancies  that  dwelt  in  it,  longing  to  plant  his  feet  on 
something  more  solid  than  this  carpet  of  rotting  yew.  At 
last  he  came  to  the  tall,  strait  gate,  wrought  of  old  iron, 
that  admitted  to  the  pleasance.  It  was  ajar.  He  passed 
through  it,  and  with  relief  he  felt  the  hard  walk  under 
his  feet,  the  fresh  air  on  his  face.  He  crossed  the  walk, 
and  stepping  on  to  the  neglected  lawn,  he  halted. 

The  Great  House  loomed  before  him,  a  hundred  yards 
away.  The  moon  had  not  risen,  but  the  brightness  which 
goes  before  its  rising  lightened  the  sky  behind  the  mon- 
strous building.  It  outlined  the  roof  but  left  the  bulk  in 
gloom.  No  light  showed  in  any  part,  and  it  was  only 
the  watcher's  memory  that  pictured  the  quaint  casements 
of  the  north  wing,  or  filled  in  the  bald  rows  of  unglazed 
windows,  which  made  of  the  new  portion  a  death-mask. 
In  that  north  wing  just  eighty  years  before,  in  a  room 
hung  with  old  Cordovan  leather,  the  fatal  house-warming 
had  been  held.  The  duel  had  been  fought  at  sunrise  within 
a  pace  or  two  of  the  moss-grown  Butterfly  that  Basset  had 
passed;  and  through  the  gate  of  ironwork,  wood-smelted 
and  wrought  with  the  arms  of  Audley,  which  had  opened 
at  his  touch,  they  had  carried  the  dead  heir  back  to  his 
father.  Tradition  had  it  that  the  servant  who  bore  in  the 
old  lord's  morning  draught  of  cool  ale  had  borne  also  the 
tragic  news  to  his  bedside. 

Basset  remembered  that  the  hinges  of  the  gate,  seldom 
as  it  was  used,  had  not  creaked,  and  he  felt  sure  that  he 
was  on  the  right  track.  He  scanned  the  dark  house,  and 
tried  to  sift  from  the  soughing  of  the  wind  any  sound  that 
might  inform  him. 

Presently  he  moved  forward  and  scrutinized  with  care 
the  north  wing,  which  abutted  on  the  yew-wood.  There 
lay  between  the  two  only  a  strip  of  formal  garden,  once  set 


104  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

with  rows  of  birds  and  beasts  cut  in  yew.  Time  had  turned 
these  to  monsters,  huge,  amorphous,  menacing,  amidst 
which  rank  grass  rioted  and  elder  pushed.  Even  in  day- 
light it  seemed  as  if  the  ancient  trees  stretched  out  arms 
to  embrace  and  strangle  the  deserted  house. 

But  the  north  wing  remained  as  dark  as  the  bulk  of  the 
house,  and  Basset  uttered  a  sigh  of  relief.  Ill-humor 
began  to  take  the  place  of  misgiving.  He  called  himself  a 
fool  for  his  pains  and  anticipated  with  distaste  a  return 
through  the  yew-walk.  However,  the  sooner  he  under- 
took the  passage  the  sooner  it  would  be  over,  and  he  was 
turning  on  his  heel  when  somewhere  between  him  and  the 
old  wing  a  stick  snapped. 

Under  a  foot,  he  fancied;  and  he  waited.  In  two  or 
three  minutes  the  moon  would  rise. 

Again  he  caught  a  faint  sound.  It  resembled  the 
stealthy  tread  of  some  one  approaching  from  the  north 
wing,  and  Basset,  peering  that  way,  was  striving  to  probe 
the  darkness,  when  a  gleam  of  light  shot  across  his  eyes. 
He  turned  and  saw  in  the  main  building  a  bright  spark. 
It  vanished.  He  waited  to  see  it  again,  and  while  he 
waited  a  second  stick  snapped.  This  time  the  sound  was 
behind  him,  and  near  the  iron  gate. 

He  had  been  outflanked,  and  he  had  now  to  choose  which 
he  would  stalk,  the  footstep  or  the  light.  He  chose  the 
latter,  the  rather  as  while  he  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  house  the  upper  edge  of  a  rising  moon  peeped  above 
the  roof. 

He  stepped  back  to  the  gate,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  he  waited.  Two  or  three  minutes  passed.  The  moon 
rose  clear  of  the  roof,  outlining  the  stately  chimneys  and 
gables  and  flooding  with  cold  light  the  lower  part  of  the 
lawn.  With  the  rising  of  the  moon  the  air  grew  more 
chilly.  He  shivered. 

At  length  a  dull  sound  reached  him — the  sound  of  a 
closing  door  or  a  shutter  cast  back.  A  minute  later  he 


THE  YEW  WALK  105 

heard  the  footsteps  of  some  one  moving  along  the  walk 
towards  him.  The  man  trod  with  care,  but  once  he 
stumbled. 

Basset  advanced.    "  Is  that  you,  sir  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  D — n !  "  John  Audley  replied  out  of  the  darkness.  He 
halted,  breathing  quickly. 

"  I  say  d — n,  too !  "  Basset  replied.  As  a  rule  he  was 
patient  with  the  old  man,  but  to-night  his  temper  failed 
him. 

The  other  came  on.  "Why  did  you  follow  me?"  he 
asked.  "  What  is  the  use  ?  What  is  the  use  ?  If  you  are 
willing  to  help  me,  good!  But  if  not,  why  do  you  follow 
me?" 

"  To  see  that  you  don't  come  to  harm/'  Basset  retorted. 
"  As  you  certainly  will  one  of  these  nights  if  you  come 
here  alone." 

"Well,  I  haven't  come  to  harm  to-night!  On  the  con- 
trary   But  there,  there,  man,  let  us  get  back."  » 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  Basset  replied.  "  I  nearly  put 
out  an  eye  as  I  came." 

John  Audley  laughed.  "  Did  you  come  through  the  yews 
in  the  dark  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Didn't  you?" 

"  No,  I  brought  a  lantern."  He  removed  as  he  spoke 
the  cap  of  a  small  bull's-eye  lantern  and  threw  its  light 
on  the  path.  "  Who's  the  fool  now  ?  " 

"  Let  us  get  home,"  Basset  snapped. 

John  Audley  locked  the  iron  gate  behind  them  and  they 
started.  The  light  removed  their  worst  difficulties  and  they 
reached  the  open  park  without  mishap.  But  long  before 
they  gained  the  house  the  elder  man's  strength  failed,  and 
he  was  glad  to  lean  on  Basset's  arm.  On  that  a  sense  of 
weakness  on  the  one  side  and  of  pity  on  the  other  closed 
their  differences.  "  After  all,"  Audley  said  wearily,  "  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  you  had  not  come." 

"  You'd  have  stayed  there ! " 


io6  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  And  that  would  have  been — Heavens,  what  a  pity  that 
would  have  been !  "  Audley  paused  and  struck  his  stick  on 
the  ground.  "I  must  take  care  of  myself,  I  must  take 
care  of  myself !  You  don't  know,  Basset,  what  I " 

"  And  I  don't  want  to  know — here !  "  Basset  replied. 
"  When  you  are  safe  at  home,  you  may  tell  me  what  you 
like." 

In  the  courtyard  they  came  on  Toft,  who  was  looking 
out  for  them  with  a  lantern.  "  Thank  God,  you're  safe, 
sir/'  he  said.  "  I  was  growing  alarmed  about  you." 

"  Where  were  you,"  Basset  asked  sharply,  "  when  I  came 
in  ?  "  John  Audley  was  too  tired  to  speak. 

"  I  had  stepped  out  at  the  front  to  look  for  the  master," 
Toft  replied.  "  I  fancied  that  he  had  gone  out  that 
way."  > 

Basset  did  not  believe  him,  but  he  could  not  refute  the 
story.  "  Well,  get  the  brandy,"  he  said,  "  and  bring  it  to 
the  library.  Mr.  Audley  has  been  out  too  long  and  is 
tired." 

They  went  into  the  library  and  Toft  pulled  off  his 
master's  boots  and  brought  his  slippers  and  the  spirit-tray. 
That  done,  he  lingered,  and  Basset  thought  that  he  was 
trying  to  divine  from  the  old  man's  looks  whether  the  jour- 
ney had  been  fruitful. 

In  the  end,  however,  the  man  had  to  go,  and  Audley 
leant  forward  to  speak. 

"  Wait !  "  Basset  muttered.    "  He  is  coming  back." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

Basset  raised  his  hand.  The  door  opened.  Toft  came  in. 
"  I  forgot  to  take  your  boots,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Well,  take  them  now,"  his  master  replied  peevishly. 
When  the  man  had  again  withdrawn,  "  How  did  you 
know  ?  "  he  asked,  frowning  at  the  fire. 

"  I  saw  him  go  to  take  your  boots — and  leave  them." 

Audley  was  silent  for  a  time,  then  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  he 
has  been  with  me  many  years  and  I  think  he  is  faithful." 


THE  YEW  WALK  107 

"  To  his  own  interests.    He  dogged  you  to-night." 

"So  did  you!" 

"Yes,  but  I  did  not  hide!  And  he  did,  and  hid  from 
me,  too,  and  lied  about  it.  How  long  he  had  been  watching 
you,  I  cannot  say,  but  if  you  think  that  you  can  break 
through  all  your  habits,  sir,  and  be  missing  for  two  hours 
at  night  and  a  man  as  shrewd  as  Toft  suspect  nothing,  you 
are  mistaken.  Of  course  he  wonders.  The  next  time  he 
thinks  it  over.  The  third  time  he  follows  you.  Presently 
whatever  you  know  he  will  know/' 

"  Confound  him ! "  Audley  turned  to  the  table  and 
jerked  some  brandy  into  a  glass.  Then,  "You  haven't 
asked  yet,"  he  said,  "  what  I've  done." 

"  If  I  am  to  choose,"  Basset  replied,  "  I  would  rather  not 
know.  You  know  my  views." 

"I  know  that  you  didn't  think  I  should  do  it?  Well, 
I've  done  it !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  that — you've  found  the  evidence?" 

"  Is  it  likely  ?  "  the  other  replied  petulantly.  "  No,  but 
I've  been  in  the  Muniment  Room.  It  is  fifty  years  since  I 
heard  my  father  describe  its  position,  but  I  could  have 
gone  to  it  blindfold!  I  was  a  boy  then,  and  the  name — 
he  was  telling  a  story  of  the  old  lord — took  my  fancy.  I 
listened.  In  time  the  thing  faded,  but  one  day  when  I  was 
at  the  lawyer's  and  some  one  mentioned  the  Muniment 
Room,  the  story  came  back  to  me  so  clearly,  that  I  could 
almost  repeat  my  father's  words." 

"  And  you've  been  in  the  room  ?  " 

"I've  been  in  it.  Why  not?  A  door  two  inches  thick 
and  studded  with  iron,  and  a  lock  that  one  out  of  any 
dozen  big  keys  would  open !  "  He  rubbed  his  calves  in  his 
satisfaction.  "  In  twenty  minutes  I  was  inside." 

"  And  it  was  empty  ?  " 

"  It  was  empty,"  the  other  agreed,  with  a  cunning  smile. 
"  As  bare  as  a  board.  A  little  whitewashed  room,  just  as 
my  father  described  it ! " 


io8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  They  had  removed  the  papers  ?  " 

"  To  the  bank,  or  to  London,  or  to  Stubbs's.  The  place 
was  as  clean  as  a  platter !  Not  a  length  of  green  tape  or 
an  end  of  parchment  was  left !  " 

"  Then  what  have  you  gained  ?  "  Basset  asked. 

Audley  looked  slyly  at  him,  his  head  on  one  side.  "  Ay, 
what?  "  he  said.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  my  father's  story.  At 
one  time  the  part  of  the  room  under  the  stairs  was 
crumbling  and  the  rats  got  in.  The  steward  told  the  old 
lord  and  he  went  to  see  it.  '  Brick  it  up ! '  he  said.  The 
steward  objected  that  there  would  not  be  room — the  place 
was  full;  there  were  boxes  everywhere,  some  under  the 
stairs.  The  old  lord  tapped  one  of  the  boxes  with  his  gold- 
headed  cane.  *  What's  in  these ! '  he  asked.  '  Old  papers,' 
the  steward  explained.  'Of  no  use,  my  lord,  but  curious; 
old  leases  for  lives,  and  terriers.'  '  Terriers  ? '  cried  the 
old  lord.  '  Then,  by  G — d,  brick  'em  up  with  the  rats ! ' 
And  that  day  at  dinner  he  told  my  father  the  story  and 
chuckled  over  it." 

"And  that's  what  you've  had  in  your  mind  all  this 
time  ?  "  Basset  said.  "  Do  you  think  it  was  done  ?  " 

"The  old  lord  bricked  up  many  a  pipe  of  port,  and  I 
think  that  he  would  do  it  for  the  jest's  sake.  And  " — 
John  Audley  turned  and  looked  in  his  companion's  face — 
"the  part  under  the  stairs  is  bricked  up,  and  the  room  is 
as  square  and  as  flush  as  the  family  vault — and  very  like 
it.  The  old  lord,"  he  added  sardonically,  "knows  what 
it  is  to  be  bricked  up  himself  now." 

"  And  still  there  may  be  nothing  there  to  help  you." 

Audley  rose  from  his  chair.  "  Don't  say  it !  "  he  cried 
passionately.  "  Or  I'll  say  that  there's  no  right  in  the 
world,  no  law,  no  providence,  no  God !  Don't  dare  to  say 
it ! "  he  continued,  his  cheeks  trembling  with  excitement. 
"  If  I  believed  that  I  should  go  mad !  But  it  is  there !  It 
is  there !  Do  you  think  that  it  was  for  naught  I  heard  that 
story  ?  That  it  was  for  naught  I  remembered  it,  for  naught 


THE  YEW  WALK  109 

I've  carried  the  story  in  my  mind  all  these  years  ?  No,  they 
are  there,  the  papers  that  will  give  me  mine  and  give  it  to 
Mary  after  me !  They  are  there !  And  you  must  help  me 
to  get  them." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,  sir,"  Basset  replied  firmly.  "  I  don't 
think  that  you  understand  what  you  ask.  To  break  into 
Audley's  house  like  any  common  burglar,  to  dig  down  his 
wall,  to  steal  his  deeds " 

John  Audley  shook  his  fist  in  the  young  man's  face. 
"  His  house !  "  he  shrieked.  "  His  wall !  His  deeds !  No, 
fool,  but  my  house,  my  wall,  my  deeds !  my  deeds !  If  the 
papers  are  there  all's  mine !  All !  And  I  am  but  taking 
my  own !  Can't  you  see  that  ?  Can't  you  see  it  ?  Have  I 
no  right  to  take  what  is  my  own?  " 

"  But  if  the  papers  are  not  there  ? "  Basset  replied 
gravely.  "No,  sir,  if  you  will  take  my  advice  you  will 
tell  your  story,  apply  to  the  court,  and  let  the  court  examine 
the  documents.  That's  the  straightforward  course." 

John  Audley  flung  out  his  arms.  "  Man !  "  he  cried. 
"  Don't  you  know  that  as  long  as  he  is  in  possession  he  can 
sit  on  his  deeds,  and  no  power  on  earth  can  force  him  to 
show  them  ?  " 

Basset  drew  in  his  breath.  "  If  that  is  so,"  he  said,  "  it 
is  hard.  Very  hard !  But  to  go  by  night  and  break  into  his 
house — sticks  in  my  gizzard,  sir.  I'm  sorry,  but  that  is  the 
way  I  look  at  it.  The  man's  here  too.  I  saw  him  this 
evening.  The  fancy  might  have  taken  him  to  visit  the 
house,  and  he  might  have  found  you  there  ?  " 

Audley's  color  faded,  he  seemed  to  shrink  into  himself. 
"  Where  did  you  see  him  ?  "  he  faltered. 

Basset  told  the  story.  "I  don't  suppose  that  the  girls 
were  really  in  danger,"  he  continued,  "  but  they  thought 
so,  and  Audley  came  to  the  rescue  and  brought  them  as 
far  as  the  park  gap." 

The  other  took  out  his  silk  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
brow.  "  As  near  as  that/'  he  muttered. 


i io  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Ay,  and  if  he  had  found  you  at  the  house,  he  might 
have  guessed  your  purpose." 

John  Audley  held  out  a  hand  trembling  with  passion. 
"I  would  have  killed  him!"  he  cried.  "I  would  have 
killed  him — before  he  should  have  had  what  is  there !  " 

"  Exactly,"  Basset  replied.  "  And  that  is  why  I  will 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter !  It's  too  risky,  sir.  If 
you  take  my  advice  you  will  give  it  up." 

Audley  did  not  answer.  He  sat  awhile,  his  shoulders 
bowed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hearth,  while  the  other  won- 
dered for  the  hundredth  time  if  he  were  sane.  At  length, 
"  What  is  he  doing  here  ?  "  the  old  man  asked  in  a  lifeless 
tone.  The  passion  had  died  out  of  him. 

"  Shooting,  I  suppose.  But  there  was  some  talk  in 
Riddsley  of  his  coming  down  to  stir  up  old  Mottisfont." 

"What  about?" 

"  Against  the  corn-law  repeal,  I  suppose." 

Audley  nodded.  But  after  a  while,  "  That's  a  pretext," 
he  said.  "And  so  is  the  shooting.  He  has  followed  the 
girl." 

Basset  started.    "  Followed  Mary ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"What  else?  I  have  looked  for  it  from  the  first.  I've 
pressed  you  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  her  for  that 
reason.  Why  the  devil  can't  you?  If  you  leave  it  much 
longer  you'll  be  too  late !  Too  late !  And,  by  G — d,  I'll 
never  forgive  yon ! "  with  a  fresh  spirt  of  passion. 
"  Never !  Never,  man ! " 

"  I've  not  said  that  I  meant  to  do  it." 

"  You've  not  said ! "  Audley  replied  contemptuously. 
"  Do  you  think  that  I  don't  know  that  she's  all  the  world 
to  you?  Do  you  think  that  I've  no  eyes?  Do  you  think 
that  when  you  sit  there  watching  her  from  behind  your 
book  by  the  hour  together,  I  have  not  my  sight?  Man, 
I'm  not  a  fool !  And  I  tell  you  that  if  you're  not  to  lose 
her  you  must  speak !  You  must  speak !  Stand  by  another 
month,  wait  a  little  longer,  and  Philip  Audley  will  put  in 


THE  YEW  WALK  in 

his  oar,  and  I'll  not  give  that  for  your  chances ! "     He 
snapped  his  fingers. 

"  Why  should  he  put  in  his  oar  ?  "  Basset  asked  sullenly. 
His  face  had  turned  a  dull  red. 

John  Audley  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Do  you  think 
that  she  is  without  attractions  ?  " 

"  But  Audley  lives  in  another  world." 
"  The  more  likely  to  have  attractions  for  her !  " 
"  But  surely  he'll  look  for — for  something  more,"  Basset 
stammered. 

"For  a  rich  wife?  For  an  alliance,  as  the  saying  is? 
And  sleep  ill  of  nights?  And  have  bad  dreams?  No,  he  is 
no  fool,  if  you  are.  He  sees  that  if  he  marries  the  girl 
he  makes  himself  safe.  He  makes  himself  safe!  After 
me,  it  lies  between  them." 

"  I  take  it  that  he  does  think  himself  safe." 
"  Not  he ! "  Audley  replied.  He  was  stooping  over  the 
ashes,  warming  his  hands,  but  at  that  he  jumped  up. 
"  Not  he !  he  knows  better  than  you !  And  fears !  And 
sleeps  ill  of  nights,  d — n  him !  And  dreams !  But  there, 
I  must  not  excite  myself.  I  must  not  excite  myself.  Only, 
if  he  once  begins,  he'll  be  no  laggard  in  love  as  you  are! 
He'll  not  sit  puling  and  peeping  and  looking  at  the  back 
of  her  head  by  the  hour  together!  He'll  be  up  and  at 
her — I  know  what  that  big  jowl  means !  And  she'll  be  in 
his  arms  in  half  the  time  that  you've  taken  to  count  her 
eyelashes ! "  He  turned  in  a  fresh  fit  of  fury  and  seized 
his  candle.  "  In  his  arms,  I  tell  you,  fool,  while  you  are 
counting  her  eyelashes.  Well,  lose  her,  lose  her,  and  I 
never  want  to  see  you  again,  or  her!  Never!  I'll  curse 
you  both ! » 

He  stumbled  to  the  door  and  went  out,  a  queer,  gibber- 
ing, shaking  figure;  and  Basset  had  no  doubt  at  such 
moments  that  he  was  mad.  But  on  this  occasion  he  was 
afraid — he  was  very  much  afraid,  as  he  sat  pondering  in 
his  chair,  that  there  was  method  in  his  madness  1 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PETER  PAUPER 

THE  impression  which  the  events  of  the  evening  had  made 
on  Mary's  mind  was  still  lively  when  she  awoke  next  day. 
It  was  not  less  clear,  because  like  the  feminine  letter  of 
the  'forties,  crossed  and  recrossed,  it  had  stamped  itself  in 
two  layers  on  her  mind,  of  which  the  earlier  was  the  more 
vivid. 

The  solitude  in  which  her  days  had  of  late  been  spent 
had  left  her  peculiarly  open  to  new  ideas,  while  the  quiet 
and  wholesome  life  of  the  Gatehouse  had  prepared  her  to 
answer  any  call  which  those  ideas  might  make  upon  her. 
Bescued  from  penury,  lifted  above  anxiety  about  bed  and 
board,  no  longer  exposed  to  the  panic-fears  which  in  Paris 
had  beset  even  her  courageous  nature,  Mary  had  for  a  while 
been  content  simply  to  rest.  She  had  taken  the  sunshine, 
the  beauty,  the  ease  and  indolence  of  her  life  as  a  conva- 
lescent accepts  idleness,  without  scruple  or  question. 

But  this  could  not  last.  She  was  young,  nature  soon 
rallied  in  her,  and  she  had  seen  things  and  done  things 
during  the  last  two  years  which  forbade  her  to  accept  such 
a  limited  horizon  as  satisfied  most  of  the  women  of  that 
day.  Unlike  them,  she  had  viewed  the  world  from  more 
than  one  standpoint ;  through  the  grille  of  a  convent  school, 
from  the  grimy  windows  of  a  back-street  in  Paris;  again, 
as  it  moved  beneath  the  painted  ceilings  of  a  French  salon. 
And  now,  as  it  presented  itself  in  this  retired  house. 

Therefore  she  could  not  view  things  as  those  saw  them 
whose  standpoint  had  never  shifted.  She  had  suffered,  she 
still  had  twinges — for  who,  with  her  experience,  could  be 

112 


PETER  PAUPER  113 

sure  that  the  path  would  continue  easy  ?    And  so  to  her  Mr. 
Colet's  sermon  had  made  a  strong  appeal. 

It  left  the  word  which  Mr.  Colet  had  taken  for  his  text 
sounding  in  her  ears.  Borne  upward  on  the  eloquence 
which  earnestness  had  lent  to  the  young  preacher,  she 
looked  down  on  a  world  in  torment,  a  world  holding  up 
piteous  hands,  craving,  itself  in  ignorance,  the  help  of  those 
who  held  the  secret,  and  whose  will  might  make  that 
secret  sufficient  to  save.  Love!  To  do  to  others  as  she 
would  have  others  do  to  her !  With  every  day,  with  every 
hour,  with  every  minute  to  do  something  for  others! 
Always  to  give,  never  to  take!  Above  all  to  give  herself, 
to  do  her  part  in  that  preference  of  others  to  self,  which 
could  alone  right  these  mighty  wrongs,  could  find  work  for 
the  idle,  food  for  the  hungry,  roofs  for  the  homeless,  knowl- 
edge for  the  blind,  healing  for  the  sick !  Which  could  save 
all  this  world  in  torment,  and  could 

"  Build  a  Heaven  in  Hell's  despair ! " 

It  was  a  beautiful  vision,  and  in  this  her  first  glimpse 
of  it,  Mary's  fancy  was  not  chilled  by  the  hard  light  of 
experience.  It  seemed  so  plain  that  if  the  workman  had 
his  master's  profit  at  heart,  and  the  master  were  as  anxious 
for  the  weal  of  his  men,  the  interests  of  the  two  would  be 
one.  Equally  plain  it  seemed  that  if  they  who  grew  the 
food  aimed  at  feeding  the  greatest  number,  and  they  who 
ate  had  the  same  desire  to  reward  the  grower,  if  every  man 
shrank  from  taking  advantage  of  other  men,  if  the  learned 
lived  to  spread  their  knowledge,  and  the  strong  to  help 
the  weak,  if  no  man  wronged  his  neighbor,  but 

"Each  for  another  gave  his  ease," 

then  it  seemed  equally  plain  that  love  would  indeed  be 
lord  of  all ! 
Later,  she  might  discover  that  it  takes  two  to  make  a 


114  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

bargain;  that  charity  does  bless  him  who  gives  but  not 
always  him  who  takes;  even,  that  cheap  bread  might  be  a 
dear  advantage — that  at  least  it  might  have  its  drawbacks. 

But  for  the  moment  it  was  enough  for  Mary  that  the 
vision  was  beautiful  and,  as  a  theory,  true.  So  that,  gazing 
upward  at  the  faded  dimity  of  her  tester,  she  longed  to 
play  her  part  in  it.  That  world  in  torment,  those  countless 
hands  stretched  upward  in  appeal,  that  murmur  of  infinite 
pain,  the  cry  of  the  hungry,  of  the  widow,  of  men  sitting 
by  fireless  hearths,  of  children  dying  in  mill  and  mine — 
the  picture  wrought  on  her  so  strongly,  that  she  could  not 
rest.  She  rose,  and  though  the  hoar  frost  was  white  on  the 
grass  and  the  fog  of  an  autumn  morning  still  curtained  the 
view,  she  began  to  dress. 

Perhaps  the  chill  of  the  cold  water  in  which  she  washed 
sobered  her.  At  any  rate,  with  the  comb  in  one  hand  and 
her  hair  in  the  other,  she  drifted  down  another  line  of 
thought.  Lord  Audley — how  strange  was  the  chance  which 
had  again  brought  them  together!  How  much  she  owed 
him,  with  what  kindness  had  he  seen  to  her  comfort,  how 
masterfully  had  he  arranged  matters  for  her  on  the  boat. 
And  then  she  smiled.  She  recalled  Basset's  ill-humor,  or 
his — jealousy.  At  the  thought  of  what  the  word  implied, 
Mary  colored. 

There  could  be  nothing  in  the  notion,  yet  she  probed  her 
own  feelings.  Certainly  she  liked  Lord  Audley.  If  he  was 
not  handsome,  he  had  that  air  of  strength  and  power  which 
impresses  women ;  and  he  had  ease  and  charm,  and  the  look 
of  fashion  which  has  its  weight  with  even  the  most  sensible 
of  her  sex.  He  had  all  these  and  he  was  a  man,  and  she 
admired  him  and  was  grateful  to  him.  And  yesterday  she 
might  have  thought  that  her  feeling  for  him  was  love. 

But  this  morning  she  had  gained  a  higher  notion  of  love. 
She  had  learned  from  Etruria  how  near  to  that  pattern  of 
love  which  Mr.  Colet  preached  the  love  of  man  and  woman 
could  rise.  She  had  a  new  conception  of  its  strength  and 


PETER  PAUPER  115 

its  power  to  expel  what  was  selfish  or  petty.  She  had  seen 
it  in  its  noblest  form  in  Etruria,  and  she  knew  that  her 
feeling  for  Lord  Audley  was  not  in  the  same  world  with 
Etruria's  feeling  for  the  curate.  She  laughed  at  the 
notion. 

"  Poor  Etruria !  "  she  meditated.  "  Or  should  it  be, 
happy  Etruria?  Who  knows?  I  only  know  that  I  am 
heart-whole ! " 

And  she  knotted  up  her  hair  and,  Diana-like,  went  out 
into  the  pure  biting  air  of  the  morning,  along  the  green 
rides  hoary  with  dew  and  fringed  with  bracken,  under  the 
oak  trees  from  which  the  wood-pigeons  broke  in  startled 
flight. 

But  if  the  energy  of  her  thoughts  carried  her  out,  fatigue 
soon  brought  her  to  a  pause.  The  evening's  excitement, 
the  strain  of  the  adventure  had  not  left  her,  young  as  she 
was,  unscathed.  The  springs  of  enthusiasm  waned  with  her 
strength,  and  presently  she  felt  jaded.  She  perceived  that 
she  would  have  done  better  had  she  rested  longer;  and  too 
late  the  charms  of  bed  appealed  to  her. 

She  was  at  the  breakfast  table  when  Basset — he,  too,  had 
had  a  restless  night  and  many  thoughts — came  down.  He 
saw  that  she  was  pale  and  that  there  were  shadows  under 
her  eyes,  and  the  man's  tenderness  went  out  to  her.  He 
longed,  he  longed  above  everything  to  put  himself  right 
with  her ;  and  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  "  I  want  you 
to  know/'  he  said,  standing  meekly  at  her  elbow,  "  that  I 
am  sorry  I  lost  my  temper  last  evening/' 

But  she  was  out  of  sympathy  with  him.  "  It  is  nothing," 
she  said.  "  We  were  all  tired,  I  think.  Etruria  is  not 
down  yet." 

"  But  I  want  to  ask  your " 

"  Oh  dear,  dear ! "  she  cried,  interrupting  him  with  a 
gesture  of  impatience.  "  Don't  let  us  rake  it  up  again. 
If  my  uncle  has  not  suffered,  there  is  no  harm  done. 
Please  let  it  rest." 


1 16  THE  GREA  T  HO  USE 

But  he  could  not  let  it  rest.  He  longed  to  put  his 
neck  under  her  foot,  and  he  did  not  see  that  she  was  in 
the  worst  possible  mood  for  his  purpose.  "  Still,"  he  said, 
"  you  must  let  me  say " 

"  Don't ! "  she  cried.  She  put  her  hands  to  her  ears. 
Then,  seeing  that  she  had  wounded  him,  she  dropped  them 
and  spoke  more  kindly.  "  Don't  let  us  make  much  of  little, 
Mr.  Basset.  It  was  all  natural  enough.  You  don't  like 
Lord  Audley " 

"I  don't." 

"  And  you  did  not  understand  that  we  had  been  terribly 
frightened,  and  had  good  reason  to  be  grateful  to  him.  I 
am  sure  that  if  you  had  known  that,  you  would  have  be- 
haved differently.  There !  "  with  a  smile.  "  And  now  that 
I  have  made  the  amende  for  you,  let  us  have  breakfast. 
Here  is  your  coffee." 

He  knew  that  she  was  holding  him  off,  and  all  his  alarms 
of  the  night  were  quickened.  Again  and  again  had  John 
Audley's  warning  recurred  to  him  and  as  often  he  had 
striven  to  reject  it,  but  always  in  vain.  And  gradually, 
slowly,  it  had  kindled  his  resolution,  it  had  fired  him  to 
action.  Now,  the  very  modesty  which  had  long  kept  him 
silent  and  withheld  him  from  enterprise  was  changed — as 
so  often  happens  with  diffident  man — into  rashness.  He 
was  as  anxious  to  put  his  fate  to  the  test  as  he  had 
before  been  unwilling. 

Presently,  "  You  will  not  need  to  tell  your  uncle  about 
Lord  Audley,"  he  said.  "  I've  done  it." 

"  I  hope  you  told  him,"  she  answered  gravely,  "  that  we 
were  indebted  to  Lord  Audley  for  our  safety." 

"You  don't  trust  me?" 

"  Don't  say  things  like  that !  "  she  cried.  "  It  is  foolish. 
I  have  no  doubt  that  in  telling  my  uncle  you  meant  to 
relieve  me.  You  have  helped  me  more  than  once  in  that 
way.  But " 

"  But  this  is  a  special  occasion  ?  " 


PETER  PAUPER  117 

She  looked  at  him.    "  If  you  wish  us  to  be  friends " 

"  I  don't,"  he  answered  roughly.  "  I  don't  want  to  be 
friends  with  you." 

Then,  ambiguous  as  his  words  were,  she  saw  where  she 
stood,  and  she  mustered  her  presence  of  mind.  She  rose 
from  her  seat.  "  And  I,"  she  said,  "  am  not  going  to 
quarrel  with  you,  Mr.  Basset.  I  am  going  now  to  learn 
how  Etruria  is.  And  then  I  shall  see  my  uncle." 

She  escaped  before  he  could  answer. 

Once  or  twice  it  had  crossed  her  mind  that  he  looked  at 
her  with  intention;  and  once  reading  that  look  in  his  eyes 
she  had  felt  her  color  rise,  and  her  heart  beat  more  quickly. 
But  the  absence  on  her  side  of  any  feeling,  except  that 
which  a  sister  might  feel  for  a  kind  brother,  this  and  the 
reserve  of  his  manner  had  nipped  the  fancy  as  soon  as  it 
budded.  And  if  she  had  given  it  a  second  thought,  it  had 
been  only  to  smile  at  her  vanity. 

Now  she  had  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  no  doubt  that  it  was 
jealousy  that  moved  him,  and  her  uppermost,  almost  her 
only  feeling  was  vexation.  Because  they  had  lived  in  the 
same  house  for  five  months,  because  he  had  been  useful 
and  she  had  been  grateful,  because  they  were  man  and 
woman,  how  foolish  it  was!  How  absurd!  How  annoy- 
ing! She  foresaw  from  it  many,  many,  inconveniences;  a 
breach  in  their  pleasant  intercourse,  displeasure  on  her 
uncle's  part,  trouble  in  the  house  that  had  been  so  peaceful 
— oh,  many  things.  But  that  which  vexed  her  most 
was  the  fear  that  she  had,  all  unwittingly,  encouraged 
him. 

She  believed  that  she  had  not.  But  while  she  talked  to 
Etruria,  and  later,  as  she  went  down  the  stairs  to  inter- 
view her  uncle,  she  had  this  weight  on  her  mind.  She 
strove  to  recall  words  and  looks,  and  upon  the  whole  she 
was  sure  that  she  could  acquit  herself,  sure  that  of 
this  evil  no  part  lay  at  her  door.  But  it  was  very,  very 
vexatious ! 


ii8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

On  the  threshold  of  the  library  she  wrested  her  thoughts 
back  to  the  present,  and  paused  a  moment,  considering 
what  she  should  say  to  her  uncle. 

She  need  not  have  troubled  herself,  for  he  was  not  there. 
At  the  first  glance  she  took  the  room  to  be  empty ;  a  second 
showed  her  Basset.  She  turned  to  retire,  but  too  late;  he 
stepped  between  her  and  the  door  and  closed  it.  He  was 
a  little  paler  than  usual,  and  his  air  of  purpose  was  not 
to  be  mistaken. 

She  stiffened.    "  I  came  to  see  my  uncle,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  him,"  he  answered. 
"He  asked  me  to  say  that  he  considers  the  matter  at  an 
end.  He  does  not  wish  it  to  be  mentioned  again.  Of 
course  he  does  not  blame  you." 

"  But,  Mr.  Basset " 

But  he  would  not  let  her  speak.  "  That  was  his  mes- 
sage," he  continued,  "and  I  am  glad  to  be  the  messenger 
because  it  gives  me  a  chance  of  speaking  to  you.  Will  you 
sit  down  ?  " 

"But  we  have  only  just  parted,"  she  remonstrated, 
struggling  against  her  fate.  "  I  don't  understand  what  you 
want " 

"  To  say  ?  No,  I  am  going  to  explain  it — if  you  will  sit 
down." 

She  sat  down  then  with  the  feeling  that  she  was  trapped. 
And  since  it  was  clear  that  she  must  go  through  with  it, 
she  was  glad  that  his  insistence  hardened  her  heart  and 
dried  up  the  springs  of  pity. 

He  went  to  the  fire,  stooped  and  moved  the  wood.  "  You 
won't  come  nearer  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  How  foolish  to  trap  her  like  this  if 
he  thought  to  get  anything  from  her ! 

He  turned  to  her  and  his  face  was  changed.  Under 
his  wistful  look  she  discovered  that  it  was  not  so  easy  to 
be  hard,  not  so  easy  to  maintain  her  firmness.  "You 
would  rather  escape  ?  "  he  said,  reading  her  mind.  "  I 


PETER  PAUPER  iig 

know.  But  I  can't  let  you  escape.  You  are  thinking  that 
I  hare  trapped  you  ?  And  you  are  fearing  that  I  am  going 
to  make  you  unhappy  for — for  half  an  hour  perhaps?  I 
know.  And  I  am  fearing  that  you  are  going  to  make  me 
unhappy  for — always." 

No,  she  could  not  retain  her  hardness.  She  knew  that 
she  was  going  to  feel  pity  after  all.  But  she  would  not 
speak. 

"  I  have  only  hope,"  he  went  on.  "  There  is  only  one 
thing  I  am  clinging  to.  I  have  read  that  when  a  man  loves 
a  woman  very  truly,  very  deeply,  as  I  love  you,  Mary  " — 
she  started  violently,  and  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair, 
so  sudden  was  the  avowal — "as  I  love  you,"  he  repeated 
sorrowfully,  "  I  have  read  that  she  either  hates  him  or 
loves  him.  His  love  is  a  fire  that  either  warms  her  or 
scorches  her,  draws  her  or  repels  her.  I  thought  of  that 
last  night,  as  I  thought  of  many  things,  and  I  was  sure,  I 
was  confident  that  you  did  not  hate  me." 

"  Oh  no,"  she  answered,  unsteadily.  "  Indeed,  indeed,  I 
don't !  I  am  very  grateful  to  you.  But  the  other — I  don't 
think  it  is  true." 

"  No  ? "  he  said,  keeping  his  eyes  on  her  face.  "  And 
then,  you  don't  doubt  that  I  love  you  ?  " 

"  No."  The  flush  had  faded  from  her  face  and  left  her 
pale.  "  I  don't  doubt  that — now." 

"  It  is  so  true  that — you  know  that  you  have  sometimes 
called  me  Peter?  Well,  I  would  have  given  much,  very 
much  to  call  you  Mary.  But  I  did  not  dare.  I  could  not. 
For  I  knew  that  if  I  did,  only  once,  my  voice  would  betray 
me,  and  that  I  should  alarm  you  before  the  time !  I  knew 
that  that  one  word — that  word  alone — would  set  my  heart 
upon  my  sleeve  for  all  to  see.  And  I  did  not  want  to 
alarm  you.  I  did  not  want  to  hurry  you.  I  thought  then 
that  I  had  time,  time  to  make  myself  known  to  you,  time 
to  prove  my  devotion,  time  to  win  you,  Mary.  I  thought 
that  I  could  wait.  Now,  since  last  night,  I  am  afraid  to 


120  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

wait.  I  doubt,  nay  I  am  sure,  that  I  have  no  time,  that  I 
dare  not  wait." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  the  color  mounted  again  to  her 
face. 

He  turned  and  knocked  the  fire  together  with  his  foot. 
Then  he  took  a  step  towards  her.  "Tell  me,"  he  said, 
"  have  I  any  chance  ?  Any  chance  at  all,  Mary  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head;  but  seeing  then  that  he  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her  and  would  not  take  that  for  an  answer, 
"  None,"  she  said  as  kindly  as  she  could.  "  I  must  tell  you 
the  truth.  It  is  useless  to  try  to  break  it.  I  have  never 
once,  not  once  thought  of  you  but  as  a  friend,  Peter." 

"  But  now,"  he  said,  "  cannot  you  regard  me  differently 
— now !  Now  that  you  know  ?  Cannot  you  begin  to  think 
of  me  as — a  lover  ?  " 

"  No,"  Mary  said  frankly  and  pitifully.  "  I  should  not 
be  honest  if  I  said  that  I  could.  If  I  held  out  hopes. 
You  have  been  always  good  to  me,  kind  to  me,  a  dear 
friend,  a  brother  when  I  had  need  of  one.  And  I  am 
grateful,  Mr.  Basset,  honestly,  really  grateful  to  you. 
And  fond  of  you — in  that  way.  But  I  could  not  think  of 
you  in  the  way  you  desire.  I  know  it  for  certain.  I  know 
that  there  is  no  chance." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  without  speaking,  and  seeing  how 
stricken  he  looked,  how  sad  his  face,  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  Then,  "Is  there  any  one  else?"  he  asked  slowly, 
his  eyes  on  her  face. 

She  did  not  answer.    She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Is  there  any  one  else?"  he  repeated,  a  new  note  in  his 
voice.  He  moved  forward  a  step. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  ask  that,"  she  said. 

"I  have  every  right,"  he  replied.  "What?"  he  con- 
tinued, moving  still  nearer  to  her,  his  whole  bearing 
changed  in  a  moment  by  the  sting  of  jealousy.  "I 
am  condemned,  I  am  rejected,  and  I  am  not  to  ask 
.why?" 


PETER  PAUPER  121 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  do  ask ! "  he  retorted  with  a  passion  which  sur- 
prised and  alarmed  her;  he  was  no  longer  the  despondent 
lover  of  five  minutes  before,  but  a  man  demanding  his 
rights.  "Have  you  no  heart?  Have  you  no  feeling  for 
me  ?  Do  you  not  consider  what  this  is  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  consider,"  Mary  replied  with  a  warmth  almost  equal 
to  his  own,  "  that  if  I  answered  your  question  I  should 
humiliate  myself.  No  one,  no  one  has  a  right,  sir,  to  ask 
that  question.  And  least  of  all  you !  " 

"  And  I  am  to  be  cast  aside,  I  am  to  be  discarded  with- 
out a  reason  ?  " 

That  word  "discarded"  seemed  so  unjust,  and  so  un- 
called for,  seeing  that  she  had  given  him  no  encourage- 
ment, that  it  stung  her  to  anger.  "  Without  a  reason  ?  " 
she  retorted.  "  I  have  given  you  a  reason — I  do  not  return 
your  love.  That  is  the  only  reason  that  you  have  a  right 
to  know.  But  if  you  press  me,  I  will  tell  you  why  what  you 
propose  is  impossible.  Because,  if  I  ever  love  a  man  I 
hope,  Mr.  Basset,  that  it  will  be  one  who  has  some  work 
in  the  world,  something  to  do  that  shall  be  worth  the 
doing,  a  man  with  ambitions  above  mere  trifling,  mere 
groping  in  the  dust  of  the  past  for  facts  that,  when  known, 
make  no  man  happier,  and  no  man  better,  and  scarce  a 
man  wiser!  Do  you  ever  think,"  she  continued,  carried 
away  by  the  remembrance  of  Mr.  Colet's  zeal,  "  of  the 
sorrow  and  pain  that  are  in  the  world?  Of  the  vast 
riddles  that  are  to  be  solved?  Of  the  work  that  awaits 
the  wisest  and  the  strongest,  and  at  which  all  in  their 
degree  can  help?  My  uncle  is  an  old  man,  it  is  well  he 
should  play  with  the  past.  I  am  a  girl,  it  may  serve  for 
me.  But  what  do  you  here?"  She  pointed  to  his  table, 
laden  with  open  folios  and  calf-bound  volumes.  "  You 
spend  a  week  in  proving  a  Bohun  marriage  that  is  nothing 
to  any  one.  Another,  in  raking  up  a  blot  that  is  better 
forgotten!  A  third  in  tracing  to  its  source  some  ancient 


122  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

tag!  You  move  a  thousand  books — to  make  one  knight! 
Is  that  a  man's  work  ?  " 

"  At  least,"  he  said  huskily,  "  I  do  no  harm." 

"  No  harm  ?  "  Mary  replied,  swept  away  by  her  feelings. 
"  Is  that  enough  ?  Because  in  this  quiet  corner,  which  is 
home  to  my  uncle  and  a  refuge  to  me,  no  call  reaches  you, 
is  it  enough  that  you  do  no  harm?  Is  there  no  good  to  be 
done  ?  Think,  Mr.  Basset !  I  am  ignorant,  a  woman.  But 
I  know  that  to-day  there  are  great  questions  calling  for  an 
answer,  wrongs  clamoring  to  be  righted,  a  people  in  travail 
that  pleads  for  ease !  I  know  that  there  is  work  in  Eng- 
land for  men,  for  all !  Work,  that  if  there  be  any  virtue 
left  in  ancient  blood  should  summon  you  as  with  a  trumpet 
call ! " 

He  did  not  answer.  Twice,  early  in  her  attack  he  had 
moved  as  if  he  would  defend  himself.  Then  he  had  let 
his  chin  fall  and  he  had  listened  with  his  eyes  on  the 
table.  And — but  she  had  not  seen  it — he  had  more  than 
once  shivered  under  her  words  as  under  a  lash.  For  he 
loved  her  and  she  scourged  him.  He  loved  her,  he  desired 
her,  he  had  put  her  on  a  pedestal,  and  all  the  time  she 
had  been  viewing  him  with  the  clear  merciless  eyes  of 
youth,  trying  him  by  the  standard  of  her  dreams,  probing 
his  small  pretensions,  finding  him  a  potterer  in  a  library 
— he  who  in  his  vanity  had  raised  his  eyes  to  her  and 
sought  to  be  her  hero ! 

It  was  a  cruel  lesson,  cruelly  given ;  and  it  wounded  him 
to  the  heart.  So  that  she,  seeing  too  late  that  he  made  no 
reply,  seeing  the  grayness  of  his  face,  and  that  he  did  not 
raise  his  eyes,  had  a  too-late  perception  of  what  she  had 
done,  of  how  cruel  she  had  been,  of  how  much  more  she 
had  said  than  she  had  meant  to  say.  She  stood  conscience- 
stricken,  remorseful,  ashamed. 

And  then,  "  Oh,  I  am  sorry !  "  she  cried.  "  I  am  sorry ! 
I  should  not  have  said  that !  You  meant  to  honor  me  and 
I  have  hurt  you." 


PETER  PAUPER  123 

He  looked  up  then,  but  neither  the  shadow  nor  the 
grayness  left  his  face.  "  Perhaps  it  was  best,"  he  said 
dully.  "  I  am  sure  that  you  meant  well." 

"I  did,"  she  cried.  "I  did!  But  I  was  wrong. 
Utterly  wrong ! " 

"No,"  he  said,  "you  were  not  wrong.  The  truth  was 
best." 

"  But  perhaps  it  was  not  the  truth,"  she  replied,  anxious 
at  once,  miserably  anxious  to  undo  what  she  had  done,  to 
unsay  what  she  had  said,  to  tell  him  that  she  was  con- 
ceited, foolish,  a  mere  girl!  "I  am  no  judge — after  all 
what  do  I  know  of  these  things?  What  have  I  done  that 
I  should  say  anything  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  what  is  said  is  said,"  he  replied.  "  I 
have  always  known  that  I  was  no  knight-errant.  I  have 
never  been  bold  until  to-day — and  it  has  not  answered," 
with  a  sickly  smile.  "  But  we  understand  one  another  now 
— and  I  relieve  you." 

He  passed  her  on  his  way  to  the  door,  and  she  thought 
that  he  was  going  to  hold  it  open  for  her  to  go  out.  But 
when  he  reached  the  door  he  fumbled  for  the  handle,  found 
it  as  a  blind  man  might  find  it,  and  went  out  himself, 
without  turning  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   MANCHESTER   MEN 

BASSET  knew  every  path  that  crossed  the  Chase,  and  had 
traversed  them  at  all  seasons,  and  in  all  weathers.  But 
when,  some  hours  later,  he  halted  on  a  scarred  and  black- 
ened waste  that  stretched  to  the  horizon  on  every  side,  he 
would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  say  how  he  came  to  be 
there.  He  wore  his  hat,  he  carried  his  stick,  but  he  could 
not  remember  how  he  had  become  possessed  of  either. 

For  a  time  the  shock  of  disappointment,  the  numbing 
sense  of  loss  had  dulled  his  mind.  He  had  walked  as  in  a 
dream,  repeating  over  and  over  again  that  that  was  what 
she  thought  of  him — and  he  had  loved  her.  It  was  possible 
that  in  the  interval  he  had  sworn  at  fate,  or  shrieked 
against  the  curlews,  or  cursed  the  inhuman  sky  that  mocked 
him  with  its  sameness.  But  he  did  not  think  that  he  had. 
He  felt  the  life  in  him  too  low  for  such  outbursts.  He 
told  himself  that  he  was  a  poor  creature,  a  broken  thing,  a 
failure.  He  loved  her,  and — and  that  was  what  she 
thought  of  him. 

He  sat  on  the  stump  of  an  ancient  thorn-tree  that  had 
been  a  landmark  on  the  burnt  heath  longer  than  the  oldest 
man  could  remember,  and  he  began  to  put  together  what 
she  had  said.  He  was  trifling  away  his  life,  picking  stray 
finds  from  the  dust-heap  of  the  past,  making  no  man  wiser 
and  no  man  better,  doing  nothing  for  any  one !  Was  she 
right?  The  Bohun  pedigree,  at  which  he  had  worked  so 
long?  He  had  been  proud  of  his  knowledge  of  Norman 

"4 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  125 

descents,  proud  of  the  research  which  had  won  that  knowl- 
edge, proud  of  his  taste  for  following  up  recondite  facts. 
Were  the  knowledge,  the  research,  the  taste,  all  things  for 
which  he  ought  to  blush?  Certainly,  tried  by  the  test,  cui 
bono?  they  came  off  but  poorly.  And  perhaps,  to  sit  down 
at  his  age,  content  with  such  employments,  might  seem  un- 
worthy and  beneath  him,  if  there  were  other  calls  upon 
him.  But  were  there  other  calls? 

Time  had  been  when  his  family  had  played  a  great  part, 
not  in  Staffordshire  only  but  in  England ;  and  then  doubt- 
less public  service  had  been  a  tradition  with  them.  But  the 
tradition  had  waned  with  their  fortunes.  In  these  days 
he  was  only  a  small  squire,  a  little  more  regarded  than  the 
new  men  about  him;  but  with  no  ability  to  push  his  way 
in  a  crowd,  no  mastery  among  his  fellow-men,  one  whom 
character  and  position  alike  cast  for  a  silent  part. 

Of  course  she  knew  none  of  these  things,  but  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  youth  she  looked  to  find  in  every  man  the 
qualities  of  the  leading  role.  He  who  seldom  raised  his 
voice  at  Quarter  Sessions  or  on  the  Grand  Jury — to  which 
his  birth  rather  than  his  possessions  called  him — she  would 
have  had  him  figure  among  the  great,  lead  causes,  cham- 
pion the  oppressed!  It  was  pitiful,  if  it  had  not  been 
absurd ! 

He  walked  on  by  and  by,  dwelling  on  the  pity  of  it,  a 
very  unhappy  man.  He  thought  of  the  evenings  in  the 
library  when  she  had  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  one 
lamp  had  lighted  them ;  of  the  mornings  when  the  sun  had 
gilded  her  hair  as  she  bent  over  the  task  she  was  even  then 
criticizing;  of  afternoons  when  the  spirit  of  the  chase  had 
been  theirs,  and  the  sunshine  and  the  flowers  had  had  no 
charm  strong  enough  to  draw  them  from  the  pursuit  of — 
alas !  something  that  could  make  no  man  better  or  wiser. 
He  had  lost  her;  and  if  aught  mattered  apart  from  that, 
she  had  for  ever  poisoned  the  springs  of  content,  muddied 
the  wells  of  his  ordered  life. 


126  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Beyond  doubt  she  loved  the  other,  for  had  she  not,  she 
would  have  viewed  things  differently.  Beyond  doubt  in 
her  love  for  the  other  lay  the  bias  that  weighted  her  stric- 
tures. And  yet,  making  all  allowance  for  that,  there  was 
so  much  of  truth  in  what  she  had  said,  so  much  that  hit  the 
mark,  that  he  could  never  be  the  same  again,  never  give 
himself  with  pleasure  to  his  former  pursuits,  never  find  the 
old  life  a  thing  to  satisfy! 

And  still,  like  the  tolling  of  a  death  bell  above  the  city's 
life,  two  thoughts  beat  on  his  mind  again  and  again,  and 
gave  him  intolerable  pain.  That  was  what  she  thought  of 
him !  And  he  had  lost  her !  That  was  what  she  thought 
of  him!  And  he  had  lost  her!  Her  slender  gracious 
figure,  her  smiling  eyes,  the  glint  in  her  hair,  her  goodness, 
her  very  self — all  were  for  another!  All  were  lost  to 
him! 

Presently  the  day  began  to  draw  in,  and  fagged  and 
hopeless  he  turned  and  began  to  make  his  way  back.  His 
road  lay  through  Brown  Heath,  the  mining  village,  where 
in  all  the  taverns  and  low-browed  shops  they  were  begin- 
ning to  light  their  candles.  He  crossed  the  Triangle,  and 
made  his  way  along  the  lane,  deep  in  coal-dust  and  foul 
with  drains,  that  ran  upwards  to  the  Chase.  A  pit,  near  at 
hand,  had  just  turned  out  its  shift,  and  in  the  dusk  tired 
men,  swinging  tins  in  their  hands,  were  moving  by  twos 
and  threes  along  the  track.  With  his  bent  shoulders  and 
weary  gait  he  was  lost  among  them,  he  walked  one  with 
them;  yet  here  and  there  an  older  man  espied  the  differ- 
ence, recognized  him,  and  greeted  him  with  rough  respect. 
Presently  the  current  slackened;  something,  he  could  not 
see  what,  dammed  the  stream.  A  shrewish  voice  rose  in 
the  darkness  before  him,  and  other  voices,  angry,  clamant, 
protesting,  struck  in.  A  few  of  the  men  pushed  by  the 
trouble,  others  stood,  here  and  there  a  man  added  a  taunt 
to  the  brawl.  In  his  turn  Basset  came  abreast  of  the 
quarrel.  He  halted. 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  127 

A  farm  cart  blocked  the  roadway.  Over  the  tail  hung 
three  or  four  wailing  children;  into  it  a  couple  of  sturdy 
men  were  trying  to  lift  an  old  woman,  seated  in  a  chair.  A 
dingy  beadle  and  a  constable,  who  formed  the  escort  and 
looked  ill  at  ease,  stood  beside  the  cart,  and  round  it  half 
a  score  of  slatternly  women  pushed  and  shrieked  a"d 
gesticulated.  On  the  group  and  the  whole  dreary  scene 
nightfall  cast  a  pallid  light. 

"  What  is  it?  "  Basset  asked. 

"  They're  shifting  Nan  Gates  to  the  poorhouse,"  a  man 
answered.  "  Her  son  died  of  the  fever,  and  there's  none  to 
keep  her  or  the  little  uns.  She've  done  till  now,  but  they'll 
not  give  her  bite  nor  sup  out  of  the  House — that's  the  law 
now  't  seems.  So  the  House  it  be !  " 

"  Her'd  rather  die  than  go ! "  cried  a  girl. 

"  D — n  them  and  their  Bastilles !  "  exclaimed  a  younger 
man.  "  Are  we  free  men,  or  are  we  not?  " 

"  Free  men  ? "  shrieked  a  woman,  who  had  seized  the 
horse's  rein  and  was  loudest  in  her  outcry.  "  No,  nor 
Staffordshire  men,  nor  Englishmen,  nor  men  at  all,  if  you 
let  an  old  woman  that's  always  lived  decent  go  to  their 
stone  jug  this  way.  Give  me  Stafford  Gaol — 'tis  miles 
afore  it ! " 

"Ay,  you're  at  home  there,  Bet!"  a  voice  in  the 
crowd  struck  in,  and  the  laugh  that  followed  lightened 
matters. 

Basset  looked  with  pity  at  the  old  woman.  Her  head 
sunk  upon  her  breast,  her  thin  shawl  tucked  about  her 
shoulders,  her  gray  hair  in  wisps  on  her  cheeks,  she  gazed 
in  tearless  grief  upon  the  hovel  which  had  been  home  to 
her.  "  Who's  to  support  her,"  he  asked,  "  if  she  stays?  " 

"For  the  bite  and  sup  there's  neighbors,"  a  man 
answered.  "  Eeverend  Colet  he  said  he  might  do  something. 
But  he's  been  lammed.  And  there's  the  rent.  The  boy's 
ten,  and  he  made  four  shilling  a  week  in  the  pit,  but  the 
new  law's  stopped  the  young  uns  working." 


128  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Ay,  d — n  all  new  laws !  "  cried  another.  "  Poor  laws 
and  pit  laws  we're  none  but  the  worse  for  them !  " 

The  men  were  preparing  to  move  the  cart.  The  woman 
who  held  the  rein  clung  to  it.  "  Now,  Bet,  have  a  care !  " 
said  the  constable.  "  Or  you'll  go  home  by  Weeping  Cross 
again ! " 

"Cross?  I'll  cross  you!"  the  termagant  retorted. 
"  Selling  up  widows'  houses  is  your  bread  and  meat !  May 
the  devil,  hoof  and  horn,  with  his  scythe  on  his  back,  go 
through  you!  If  there  were  three  men  here,  ay,  men  as 
you'd  call  men " 

"  Easy,  woman,  easy !  " 

"  Woman,  dang  you !   You  call  me  woman " 

"Now,  let  go,  Bet!  You'll  be  in  trouble  else!"  some 
one  said. 

But  she  held  on,  and  the  crowd  were  beginning  to 
jostle  the  men  in  charge  when  Basset  stepped  forward. 
"  Steady,  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  Will  the  guardians  let 
the  woman  stop  if  the  rent  is  provided  ?  " 

"  Who  be  you,  master  ?  "  the  constable  asked.  "  You'd 
best  let  us  do  our  duty." 

"  Dang  it,  man,"  an  old  fellow  interposed,  "  it's  Squire 
Basset  of  Blore.  Dunno  you  know  him?  Keep  a  civil 
tongue  in  your  head,  will  you !  " 

"  Ay,"  chimed  in  another,  pushing  forward  with  a 
menacing  gesture.  "  You  be  careful,  Jack !  You  be  Jack 
in  office,  but  'twon't  always  be  so !  'Twon't  always  be  so !  " 

"  Mr.  Colet  knows  the  old  woman?  "  Basset  asked. 

"  Sure,  sir,  the  curate  knows  her." 

"  Well,  I'll  find  the  rent,"  Basset  said,  addressing  the 
constable,  "  if  you'll  let  her  be.  I'll  see  the  overseer  about 
her  in  the  morning." 

"  So  long  as  she  don't  come  on  the  rates,  sir  ?  " 

"  She'll  not  come  on  the  rates  for  six  months,"  Basset 
said.  "  I'll  be  answerable  for  so  much." 

The  men  had  little  stomach  for  their  task,  and  with  a 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  129 

good  excuse  they  were  willing  enough  to  desist.  A  woman 
fetched  a  stub  of  a  pen  and  a  drop  of  ink  and  Basset  wrote 
a  word  for  their  satisfaction.  While  he  did  so,  "  O'd  Staf- 
fordshire !  O'd  Staffordshire ! "  a  man  explained  in  the 
background.  "  Bassets  of  Blore — they  be  come  from  an 
Abbey  and  come  to  a  Grange,  as  the  saying  is.  You  never 
heard  of  the  Bassets  of  Blore,  you  be  neither  from  Mixen 
nor  Moor !  "  In  old  Stafford  talk  the  rich  lands  of  Cheshire 
stood  for  the  "  mixen  "  as  against  the  bare  heaths  of  the 
home  county. 

In  five  minutes  the  business  was  don£,  the  woman  freed, 
and  Basset  was  trudging  away  through  the  gathering  dark- 
ness. But  the  incident  had  done  him  good.  It  had  light- 
ened his  heart.  It  had  changed  ever  so  little  the  direction 
of  his  thoughts.  Out  of  his  own  trouble  he  had  stretched  a 
hand  to  another;  and  although  he  knew  that  it  was  not  by 
stray  acts  such  as  this  that  he  could  lift  himself  to  Mary's 
standard,  though  the  battle  over  the  new  Poor  Law  had 
taught  him,  and  many  others,  that  charity  may  be  the 
greatest  of  evils,  what  he  had  done  seemed  to  bring  hi;n 
nearer  to  her.  A  hardship  of  the  poor,  which  he  might 
have  seen  with  blind  eyes,  or  viewed  from  afar  as  the 
inevitable  result  of  the  stay  of  outdoor  relief,  had  come 
home  to  him.  As  he  plodded  across  the  moor  he  carried 
with  him  a  picture  of  the  old  woman  with  her  gray  hair 
falling  about  her  wrinkled  face,  and  her  hands  clasped  in 
hopeless  resignation.  And  he  felt  that  his  was  not  the 
only  trouble  in  the  world. 

When  he  had  passed  the  wall  of  Beaudelays  Park,  Basset 
struck — not  far  from  the  Gatehouse — into  the  road  leading 
down  to  the  Vale,  and  a  couple  of  hours  after  dark  he 
plodded  into  Riddsley.  He  made  for  the  Audley  Arms, 
a  long  straggling  house  on  the  main  street,  in  one  part  of 
two  stories,  in  another  of  three,  with  a  big  bay  window  at 
the  end.  Entering  the  yard  by  the  archway  he  ordered  a 
gig  to  go  to  the  Gatehouse  for  his  portmanteau.  Then  he 


130  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

turned  into  the  inn,  and  scribbled  a  note  to  John  Audley, 
stating  that  he  was  called  away,  and  would  explain  matters 
when  he  wrote  again.  He  sent  it  by  the  driver. 

It  was  eight  o'clock.  "  I  am  afraid,  Squire,"  the  land- 
lord said,  "  that  there's  no  fire  upstairs.  If  you'd  not 
mind  our  parlor  for  once,  there's  no  one  there  and  it's 
snug  and  warm." 

"  I'll  do  that,  Musters,"  he  said.  He  was  cold  and 
famished  and  he  was  not  sorry  to  avoid  the  company  of  his 
own  thoughts.  In  the  parlor,  next  door  to  the  Snug,  he 
might  be  alone  or  listen  to  the  local  gossip  as  he  pleased. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  sat  in  front  of  a  good  plain  meal, 
and  for  the  time  the  pangs  of  appetite  overcame  those  of 
disappointment.  About  nine  the  landlord  entered  on  some 
errand.  "  I  suppose,  sir,"  he  said,  lingering  to  see  that  his 
guest  had  all  that  he  wanted,  "  you've  heard  this  about  Mr. 
Mottisfont?" 

"No,  Musters,  what  is  it?  Get  a  clean  glass  and  tell 
me  about  it." 

"  He's  to  resign,  sir,  I  hear.    And  his  son  is  to  stand." 

"Why?" 

"Along  o'  this  about  Sir  Eobert  Peel,  I  understand. 
They  have  it  that  Sir  Robert's  going  to  repeal  the  corn 
taxes — some  say  that  he's  been  for  it  all  through,  and  some 
talk  about  a  potato  failure.  Mr.  Mottisfont  sees  that  that'll 
never  do  for  Riddsley,  but  he  don't  want  to  part  from  his 
leader,  after  following  him  all  these  years;  so  he'll  go  out 
and  the  young  gentleman  will  take  his  place." 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  true  about  Peel?  " 

"  They're  saying  it,  and  Mr.  Stubbs,  he  believes  it.  But 
it'll  never  go  down  in  Eiddsley,  Squire.  We're  horn  and 
corn  men  here,  two  to  one  of  us.  There's  just  the  two  small 
factories  on  the  other  side,  and  most  of  the  hands  haven't 
votes.  But  here's  Mr.  Stubbs  himself." 

The  lawyer  had  looked  into  the  room  in  passing.    Seeing 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  131 

Basset  he  removed  his  hat.  "  Pardon,  Squire,"  he  said. 
"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Basset  answered.  He  knew  the  lawyer 
locally,  and  had  seen  him  often — at  arm's  length — in  the 
peerage  suit.  "Will  you  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  me?" 

Stubbs  said  that  he  would  with  pleasure,  if  he  might 
take  it  standing — his  time  was  short.  The  landlord  was 
for  withdrawing,  but  Stubbs  detained  him.  "  No,  John, 
with  Mr.  Basset's  leave  I've  a  bone  to  pick  with  you,"  he 
said.  "  Who  are  these  men  who  are  staying  here  ?  " 

Musters's  face  fell.  "Lord,  Mr.  Stubbs,"  he  said, 
"  have  you  heard  of  them  ?  " 

"I  hear  most  things,"  the  lawyer  answered.  "But 
repealers  talking  treason  at  the  Audley  Arms  is  a  thing 
I  never  thought  to  hear.  They  must  go." 

The  landlord  rubbed  his  head.  "  I  can't  turn  'em  out," 
he  said.  "  They'd  have  the  law  of  me.  His  lordship 
couldn't  turn  'em  out." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Stubbs  replied.  "He's  a 
good  landlord,  but  he  likes  his  own  way." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  "  the  stout  man  protested.  "  When 
they  came  I  knew  no  more  about  them  than  a  china  babe. 
When  they  began  to  talk,  so  glib  that  no  one  could  answer 
them,  I  was  more  took  aback  than  anybody.  Seems  like  the 
world's  coming  to  an  end  with  Manchester  men  coming 
here." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  Basset  said. 

Stubbs  met  his  eye  and  took  his  meaning.  Later  the 
lawyer  maintained  that  he  had  his  suspicions  from  that 
moment.  At  the  time  he  only  answered,  "  Not  in  our  day, 
Mr.  Basset.  Peel  or  Eepeal,  there's  no  one  has  attacked 
the  land  yet  but  the  land  has  broken  them.  And  so  it  will 
be  this  time.  John,  the  sooner  those  two  are  out  of  your 
house  the  better." 

"  But,  dang  me,  sir,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Put  'em  in  the  horse  trough  for  what  I  care ! "  the 


132  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

lawyer  replied.  "  Good-evening,  Squire.  I  hope  the  Ridds- 
ley  parliament  mayn't  disturb  you." 

The  landlord  followed  him  out,  after  handing  something 
through  the  hatch,  which  opened  into  the  Snug.  He  left 
the  hatch  a  little  ajar  when  he  had  done  so,  and  the  voices 
of  those  who  gathered  there  nightly,  as  to  a  club,  reached 
Basset.  At  first  he  caught  no  more  than  a  word  here  or 
there,  but  as  the  debate  grew  warm  the  speakers  raised 
their  voices. 

"  All  mighty  fine/'  some  one  said,  laying  down  the  law, 
"but  you're  like  the  rest,  you  Manchester  chaps.  You've 
your  eyes  on  your  own  rack  and  manger !  " 

"  I'm  not  denying  it,"  came  the  answer  in  a  Lancashire 
accent,  "I'm  not  saying  that  cheap  bread  won't  suit  us. 
But  it  isn't  for  that " 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not,"  the  former  speaker  replied  with 
heavy  irony — Basset  thought  that  the  voice  belonged  to 
Hayward  of  the  Leasows,  a  pompous  old  farmer,  dubbed 
behind  his  back  "  The  Duke."  "  You  don't  want  low  wages 
i'  your  mills,  of  course !  " 

"  Cheap  bread  doesn't  make  low  wages,"  the  other  re- 
joined. "  That's  where  you  mistake,  sir.  Let  me  put  it  to 
you.  You've  known  wheat  high  ?  " 

"It  was  seventy-seven  shillings  seven  years  back,"  the 
farmer  pronounced.  "And  I  ha'  known  it  a  hundred 
shillings  a  quarter  for  three  years  together." 

"  And  I  suppose  the  wages  at  that  time  were  the  highest 
you've  ever  known  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  the  farmer  admitted,  "  I'm  not  saying  that." 

"  And  seven  years  ago  when  wheat  was  seventy-seven — 
it  is  fifty-six  now — were  wages  higher  then  than  now  ?  " 

"  Well,"  the  Duke  answered  reluctantly,  "  I  don't  know 
as  they  were,  mister,  not  to  take  notice  of." 

"  Think  it  out  for  yourself,  sir,"  the  other  replied.  "  I 
don't  think  you'll  find  that  wages  are  highest  when  wheat 
is  highest,  nor  lowest  when  wheat  is  lowest." 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  133 

The  farmer,  more  weighty  than  ready,  snorted.  But 
another  speaker  took  up  the  cudgels.  "  Ay,  but  one 
minute,"  he  said.  "  It's  the  price  of  wheat  fixes  the  lowest 
wages.  If  it's  two  pound  of  bread  will  keep  a  man  fit  to 
work — just  keep  him  so  and  no  more — it's  the  price  of 
bread  fixes  whether  the  lowest  wages  is  eightpence  a  day  or 
a  shilling  a  day." 

"  Well,  but " 

"  Well,  but  by  G — d,  he's  got  you  there !  "  the  Duke 
cried,  and  smacked  his  fat  thigh  in  triumph.  "  We've  some 
sense  i'  Biddsley  yet.  Here's  your  health  and  song,  Dr. 
Pepper !  "  At  which  there  was  some  laughter. 

"  Well,  sir,  I'll  not  say  yes,  nor  no,  to  that/'  the  Lan- 
cashire man  replied,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a  hearing. 
"  But,  gentlemen,  it's  not  low  wages  we  want.  I'll  tell  you 
the  two  things  we  do  want,  and  why  we  want  cheap  bread ; 
first,  that  your  laborers  after  they  have  bought  bread  may 
have  something  over  to  buy  our  woollens,  and  our  cottons, 
and  your  pots.  And  secondly,  if  we  don't  take  foreign 
wheat  in  payment  how  are  foreigners  to  pay  for  our 
goods  ?  " 

But  at  this  half  a  dozen  were  up  in  arms.  "  How  ?  " 
cried  the  Duke,  "  why  wi'  money  like  honest  men  at  home ! 
But  there  it  is !  There's  the  devil's  hoof !  It's  foreign  corn 
you're  after!  And  with  foreign  corn  coming  in  at  forty 
shillings  where'll  we  be?" 

"  No  wheat  will  ever  be  grown  at  that  price,"  declared 
the  free  trader  with  solemnity,  "  here  or  abroad !  " 

"So  you  say!"  cried  Hayward.  "But  put  it  at  forty- 
five.  We'll  be  on  the  rates,  and  our  laborers,  where'll  they 
be?" 

"  I  don't  like  such  talk  in  my  house ! "  said  Musters. 

"  I'd  certainly  like  an  answer  to  that,"  Pepper  the  sur- 
geon said.  "If  the  farmers  are  broke  where'll  their 
laborers  be  but  flocking  to  your  mills  to  put  down  wages 
there ! " 


134  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"The  laborers?  Well,  they're  protected  now,  that's 
true." 

"  Lucky  for  them !  "  cried  two  or  three. 

"  They  are  protected  now,"  the  stranger  repeated  slowly. 
"  And  I'll  tell  you  what  one  of  them  said  to  me  last  year. 
'  I  be  protected/  he  said,  '  and  I  be  starving ! '  " 

"  Dang  his  impudence ! "  muttered  old  Hayward. 
"  That's  the  kind  of  thing  they  two  Boshams  at  the  Bridge 
talk.  Firebrands  they  be ! " 

But  the  shot  had  told ;  no  one  else  spoke. 

"That  man's  wages,"  the  Manchester  man  continued, 
"  were  six  shillings  a  week — it  was  in  Wiltshire.  And  you 
are  protected  too,  sir,"  he  continued,  turning  suddenly  on 
the  Duke.  "  Have  you  made  a  fortune,  sir,  farming  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  have,"  the  farmer  answered  sulkily 
— and  in  a  lower  voice,  "  Dang  his  impudence  again !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Because  you  are  paying  a  protected  rent. 
Because  you  pay  high  for  feeding-stuff.  Because  you  pay 
poor-rates  so  high  you'd  be  better  off  paying  double  wages. 
There's  only  one  man  benefits  by  the  corn-tax,  sir,  there's 
only  one  who  is  truly  protected,  and  that  is  the  landlord !  " 

But  to  several  in  the  room  this  was  treason,  and  they 
cried  out  upon  it.  "Ay,  that's  the  bottom  of  it,  mister," 
one  roared,  "  down  with  the  landlords  and  up  with  the 
cotton  lords ! "  "  There's  your  Eeform  Bill,"  shouted 
another,  "  we've  put  the  beggars  on  horseback,  and  none's 
to  ride  but  them  now !  "  A  third  protested  that  cheap 
bread  was  a  herring  drawn  across  the  track.  "  They're  for 
cheap  bread  for  the  poor  man,  but  no  votes !  Votes  would 
make  him  as  good  as  them !  " 

"Anyway,"  the  stranger  replied  patiently,  "it's  clear 
that  neither  the  farmer  nor  the  laborer  grows  fat  on  Pro- 
tection. Your  wages  are  nine  shillings " 

"  Ten  and  eleven !  "  cried  two  or  three. 

"  And  your  farmers  are  smothered  in  rates.  If  that's  all 
you  get  by  Protection  I'd  try  another  system." 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  135 

"Anyways,  I'll  ask  you  to  try  it  out  of  my  house," 
Musters  said.  "  I've  a  good  landlord  and  I'll  not  hear 
him  abused ! " 

"  Hear !    Hear !    Musters !    Quite  right !  " 

"I've  not  said  an  uncivil  word,"  the  Manchester  man 
rejoined.  "  I  shall  leave  your  house  to-morrow,  not  an 
hour  before.  I'll  add  only  one  word,  gentlemen.  Bread  is 
the  staff  of  life.  Isn't  it  the  last  thing  you  should  tax  ?  " 

"  True,"  Mr.  Pepper  replied.  "  But  isn't  agriculture  the 
staple  industry  ?  Isn't  it  the  base  on  which  all  other  indus- 
tries stand?  Isn't  it  the  mainstay  of  the  best  constitution 
in  the  world?  And  wasn't  it  the  land  that  steadied  Eng- 
land, and  kept  it  clear  of  Bonaparte  and  Wooden 
Shoes " 

"Ay,  wooden  ships  against  wooden  shoes  for  ever!" 
broke  in  old  Hayward,  in  great  excitement.  "  Where  were 
the  oaks  grown  as  beat  Bony  I  No,  master,  protect  the  oak 
and  protect  the  wheat,  and  England  '11  never  lack  ships  nor 
meat !  Your  cotton-printers  and  ironfounders  they're  great 
folks  now,  great  folks,  with  their  brass  and  their  votes,  and 
so  they've  a  mind  to  upset  the  gentry.  It's  the  town 
against  the  country,  and  new  money  against  the  old  acres 
that  have  fed  us  and  our  fathers  before  us  world  without 
end !  But  put  one  of  my  lads  in  your  mills,  and  amid  your 
muck,  and  in  twelve  months  he'd  not  pitch  hay,  no  not 
three  hours  of  the  day ! " 

Basset  could  hear  the  free  trader's  chair  grate  on  the 
sanded  floor  as  he  pushed  it  back.  "  Well,  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  "I'll  not  quarrel  with  you.  I  wish  you  all  the  pro- 
tection you  deserve — and  I  think  Sir  Kobert  will  give  it 
you !  For  us,  I'm  not  saying  that  we  are  not  thinking  of 
our  own  interests." 

"  Devil  a  doubt  of  that !  "  muttered  the  farmer. 

"  And  some  of  us  may  have  been  cold-shouldered  by  my 
lord.  But  you  may  take  it  from  me  that  there's  some  of 
us,  too,  are  as  anxious  to  better  the  poor  man's  lot — ay,  aa 


136  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Lord  Ashley  himself!  That's  all!  Good-night,  gentle- 
men." 

When  he  was  gone,  "  Gi'  me  a  coal  for  my  pipe,  John," 
said  the  Duke.  "  I  never  heard  the  like  of  that  in  Ridds- 
ley.  He's  a  gallus  glib  chap  that !  " 

"  I  won't  say,"  said  Mr.  Pepper  cautiously,  "  that  there's 
nothing  in  it." 

"  Plenty  in  it  for  the  cotton  people  and  the  coal  people, 
and  the  potters.  But  not  for  us !  " 

"But  if  Sir  Robert  sees  it  that  way?"  queried  the  sur- 
geon, delicately. 

"  Then  if  Sir  Robert  were  member  for  Riddsley,"  Hay- 
ward  answered  stubbornly,  "  he'd  get  his  notice  to  quit, 
Dr.  Pepper !  You  may  bet  your  hat  on  that !  " 

"  There's  one  got  a  lesson  last  night,"  a  new-comer 
chimed  in.  "  Parson  Colet  got  so  beaten  on  the  moor  he's 
in  bed  I  am  told.  He's  been  speaking  free  these  last  two 
months,  and  I  thought  he'd  get  it.  Three  lads  from  your 
part  I  am  told,  Hayward." 

"  Well,  well ! "  the  farmer  replied  with  philosophy. 
"  There's  good  in  Colet,  and  maybe  it'll  be  a  lesson  to 
him !  Anyway,  good  or  bad,  he's  going." 

"  Going?  "  cried  two  or  three,  speaking  at  once. 

"  I  met  Rector  not  two  hours  back.  He'd  a  letter  from 
Colet  saying  he  was  going  to  preach  the  same  rubbish  here 
as  he's  fed  'em  with  at  Brown  Heath — cheap  bread  and  the 
rest  of  it.  Rector's  been  to  him — he  wouldn't  budge,  and 
he  got  his  notice  to  quit  right  straight.  Rector  was  fit  to 
burst  when  I  saw  him." 

"  Colet  be  a  born  fool !  "  cried  Musters.  "  Who's  like  to 
employ  him  after  that?  Wheat  is  tithe  and  the  parsons 
are  as  fond  of  their  tithe  as  any  man.  You  may  look  a  long 
way  before  you'll  find  a  parson  that's  a  repealer." 

"  Serves  Colet  right !  "  said  one.  "  But  I'm  sorry  for 
him  all  the  same.  There's  worse  men  than  the  Reverend 
Colet." 


THE  MANCHESTER  MEN  137 

Basset  could  never  say  afterwards  what  moved  him  at 
this  point,  but  whatever  it  was  he  got  up  and  went  out. 
The  boots  was  lounging  at  the  door  of  the  inn.  He  asked 
the  man  where  Mr.  Colet  lodged,  and  learning  that  it  was 
in  Stream  Street,  near  the  Maypole,  he  turned  that  way. 


CHAPTEE  XV 

STRANGE  BEDFELLOWS 

HAD  any  one  told  Basset,  even  that  morning,  that  before 
night  he  would  seek  the  advice  of  the  Biddsley  curate,  he 
would  have  met  the  suggestion  with  unmeasured  scorn. 
Probably  he  had  not  since  his  college  days  spent  an  hour 
in  intimate  talk  with  a  man  so  far  from  him  in  fortune 
and  position,  and  so  unlike  him  in  those  things  which 
bring  men  together.  Nor  in  the  act  of  approaching  Colet 
— under  the  impulse  of  a  few  casual  words  and  a  sudden 
thought — was  he  able  to  understand  or  to  justify  himself. 

But  when  he  rose  to  his  feet  after  an  hour  spent  beside 
the  curate's  dingy  hearth — over  the  barber's  shop  in  Stream 
Street — he  did  not  need  to  justify  the  step.  He  had  said 
little  but  he  had  heard  much.  Colet's  tongue  had  been 
loosened  by  the  sacrifice  he  had  made,  and  inspired  by  that 
love  of  his  kind  which  takes  refuge  in  the  most  unlikely 
shapes,  he  had  poured  forth  at  length  his  beliefs  and  his 
aspirations.  And  Basset,  whose  world  had  tottered  since 
morning,  for  whom  common  things  had  lost  their  poise  and 
life  its  wonted  aspect,  began  to  think  that  he  had  found  in 
the  other's  aims  a  new  standpoint  and  the  offer  of  a  new 
beginning. 

The  dip  candles,  which  had  been  many  times  snuffed, 
were  burning  low  when  the  two  rose.  The  curate,  whose 
pale  cheeks  matched  his  bandaged  head,  had  a  last  word 
to  say.  "  Of  the  need  I  am  sure/'  he  repeated,  as  Basset's 
eye  sought  the  cheap  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  "  If  I  have 
not  proved  that,  the  fault,  sir,  is  mine.  But  the  means — 
they  are  a  question  for  you ;  almost  any  jian  may  see  them 

138 


STRANGE  BEDFELLOWS  139 

more  clearly  than  I  do.  By  votes,  it  may  be,  and  so 
through  the  people  working  out  their  own  betterment.  Or 
by  social  measures,  as  Lord  Ashley  thinks,  through  the 
classes  that  are  fitted  by  education  to  judge  for  all.  Or 
by  the  wider  spread,  as  I  hold,  of  self-sacrifice  by  all  for 
all — to  me,  the  ideal.  But  of  one  thing  I  am  convinced; 
that  this  tax  upon  the  commonest  food,  which  takes  so 
much  more  in  proportion  from  the  poor  than  from  the  rich, 
is  wrong.  Certainly  wrong,  Mr.  Basset, — unless  the  gain 
and  the  loss  can  be  equally  spread.  That's  another  matter/' 

"I  will  not  say  any  more  now,"  Basset  answered  cau- 
tiously, "  than  that  I  am  inclined  to  your  view.  But  for 
yourself,  are  there  not  others  who  will  not  pay  so  dearly  for 
maintaining  it  ?  " 

A  redness  spread  over  the  curate's  long  horse-face.  "  No, 
Mr.  Basset,"  he  rejoined,  "  if  I  left  my  duty  to  others  I 
should  pay  still  more  dearly.  I  am  my  own  man.  I  will 
remain  so." 

"  But  what  will  you  do  when  you  leave  here  ?  "  Basset 
inquired,  casting  his  eyes  round  the  shabby  room.  He  did 
not  see  it  as  he  had  seen  it  on  his  entrance.  He  discerned 
that,  small  as  it  was,  and  shabby  as  it  was,  it  might  be  a 
man's  home.  "  I  fear  that  there  are  few  incumbents  who 
hold  your  views." 

"  There  are  absentees,"  Colet  replied  with  a  smile,  "  who 
are  not  so  particular ;  and  in  the  north  there  are  a  few  who 
think  as  I  think.  I  shall  not  starve." 

"  I  have  an  old  house  on  the  Derbyshire  border  twenty 
miles  from  here,"  Basset  said.  "  A  servant  and  his  wife 
keep  it,  and  during  some  months  of  the  year  I  live  there. 
It  is  an  out-of-the-way  place,  Mr.  Colet,  but  it  is  at  your 
service — if  you  don't  get  work  ?  " 

The  curate  seemed  to  shrink  into  himself.  "  I  couldn't 
trespass  on  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  hope  you  will,"  Basset  replied.  "  In  the  meantime, 
who  was  the  man  you  quoted  a  few  minutes  ago  ?  " 


I4o  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Francis  Place.  He  is  a  good  man  though  not  as  we  " 
— he  touched  his  threadbare  cloth — "  count  goodness.  He 
is  something  of  a  Socialist,  something  of  a  Chartist — he 
might  frighten  you,  Mr.  Basset.  But  he  has  the  love  of 
the  people  in  him." 

"  I  will  see  him." 

"  He  has  been  a  tailor." 

That  hit  Basset  fairly  in  the  face.  "  Good  heavens !  " 
he  said.  "A  tailor?" 

"  Yes,"  Colet  replied,  smiling.  "  But  a  very  uncommon 
tailor.  Let  me  tell  you  why  I  quoted  him.  Because, 
though  he  is  not  a  Christian,  he  has  ideals.  He  aims 
higher  than  he  can  shoot,  while  the  aims  of  the  Man- 
chester League,  though  I  agree  with  them  upon  the  corn- 
tax,  seem  to  me  to  be  bounded  by  the  material  and  warped 
by  their  own  interests." 

Basset  nodded.  "  You  have  thought  a  good  deal  on  these 
things,"  he  said. 

"  I  live  among  the  poor.    I  have  them  always  before  me." 

"  And  I  have  thought  so  little  that  I  need  time.  You 
must  think  no  worse  of  me  if  I  wait  a  while.  And  now, 
good-night." 

But  the  other  did  not  take  the  hand  held  out  to  him. 
He  was  staring  at  the  candle.  "  I  am  not  clear  that  I  have 
been  quite  frank  with  you,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "  You 
have  offered  me  the  shelter  of  your  house  though  I  am  a 
stranger,  Mr.  Basset,  and  though  you  must  suspect  that 
to  harbor  me  may  expose  you  to  remark.  Well,  I  may  be 
tempted  to  avail  myself  of  your  kindness.  But  I  cannot 
do  so  unless  you  know  more  of  my  circumstances." 

"  I  know  all  that  is  necessary." 

"  You  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  Colet 
persisted.  "  And  I  think  that  you  should.  I  am  going  to 
marry  the  daughter  of  your  uncle's  servant,  Toft." 

"  Good  Lord ! "  cried  Basset.  This  was  a  second  and 
more  serious  blow.  It  brought  him  down  from  the  clouds. 


STRANGE  BEDFELLOWS  141 

"That  shocks  you,  Mr.  Basset,"  the  curate  continued 
with  dignity,  "that  I  should  marry  one  in  her  position? 
Well,  I  am  not  called  upon  to  justify  it.  Why  I  think 
her  worthy,  and  more  than  worthy  to  share  my  life,  is  my 
business.  I  only  trouble  you  with  the  matter  because  you 
have  made  me  an  offer  which  you  might  not  have  made 
had  you  known  this." 

Basset  did  not  deny  the  fact.  He  could  not,  indeed.  His 
taste,  his  prejudice,  his  traditions  all  had  received  a  blow, 
all  were  up  in  arms;  and,  for  the  moment,  at  any  rate  he 
repented  of  his  visit.  He  felt  that  in  stepping  out  of  the 
normal  round  he  had  made  a  mistake.  He  should  have 
foreseen,  he  should  have  known  that  he  would  meet  with 
such  shocks.  "  You  have  certainly  astonished  me,"  he  said 
after  a  pause  of  dismay.  "  I  cannot  think  the  match 
suitable,  Mr.  Colet.  May  I  ask  if  my  uncle  knows  of 
this?" 

"  Miss  Audley  knows  of  it." 

"  But — you  cannot  yourself  think  it  suitable ! " 

"  I  have,"  Colet  replied  dryly,  "  or  rather  I  had  seventy 
pounds  a  year.  What  girl,  born  in  comfort,  gently  bred, 
sheltered  from  childhood  could  I  asjc  to  share  that?  How 
could  I,  with  so  little  in  the  present  and  no  prospects,  ask 
a  gentlewoman  to  share  my  lot?  " 

Basset  did  not  reply,  but  he  was  not  convinced.  A 
clergyman  to  marry  a  servant,  good  and  refined  as  Etruria 
was!  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  unseemly,  to  be  altogether 
wrong. 

Colet  too  was  silent  a  moment.  Then,  "  I  am  glad  I 
have  told  you  this,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  not  now  trespass  on 
you.  On  the  other  hand,  I  hope  that  you  may  still  do 
something — and  with  your  name,  you  can  do  much — for 
the  good  cause.  If  rumor  goes  for  anything,  many  will 
in  the  next  few  months  examine  the  ground  on  which  they 
stand.  It  will  be  much,  if  what  I  have  said  has  weight 
with  you." 


142  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

He  spoke  with  constraint,  but  he  spoke  like  a  man,  and 
Basset  owned  his  equality  while  he  resented  it.  He  felt 
that  he  ought  to  renew  his  offer  of  hospitality,  but  he 
could  not — reserve  and  shyness  had  him  again  in  their 
grip.  He  muttered  something  about  thinking  it  over, 
added  a  word  or  two  of  thanks — which  were  cut  short  by 
the  nickering  out  of  the  candle — and  a  minute  later  he 
was  in  the  dark  deserted  street,  and  walking  back  to  his 
inn — not  over  well  content  with  himself,  if  the  truth  be 
told. 

Either  he  should  not  have  gone,  he  felt,  or  he  should 
have  gone  the  whole  way,  sunk  his  ideas  of  caste,  and  car- 
ried the  thing  through.  What  was  it  to  him  if  the  man 
was  going  to  marry  a  servant? 

But  that  was  a  detail.  The  main  point  was  that  he 
should  not  have  gone.  It  had  been  a  foolish  impulse — he 
saw  it  now — which  had  taken  him  to  the  barber's  shop ;  and 
one  which  he  might  have  known  that  he  would  repent. 
He  ought  to  have  foreseen  that  he  could  not  place  himself 
on  Colet's  level  without  coming  into  collision  with  him; 
that  he  could  not  draw  wisdom  from  him  without  paying 
toll. 

An  impossible  person,  he  thought,  a  man  of  ideas  quite 
unlike  his  own!  And  yet  the  man  had  spoken  well  and 
ably,  and  spoken  from  experience.  He  had  told  the  things 
that  he  had  seen  as  he  passed  from  house  to  house,  hard, 
sad  facts,  the  outcome  of  rising  numbers  and  falling  wages, 
of  over-production,  of  mouths  foodless  and  unwanted.  And 
all  made  worse,  as  he  maintained,  by  this  tax  on  bread,  that 
barely  touched  the  rich  man's  income,  yet  took  a  heavy  toll 
from  the  small  wage. 

As  he  recalled  some  of  the  things  that  he  had  heard, 
Basset  felt  his  interest  revive.  Colet  had  dealt  with  facts ; 
he  had  attempted  no  oratory,  he  had  cast  no  glamour  over 
them.  But  he  had  brought  to  bear  upon  them  the  light 
of  an  ideal — the  Christian  ideal  of  unselfishness;  and  his 


STRANGE  BEDFELLOWS  143 

hearer,  while  he  doubted,  while  he  did  not  admit  that  the 
solution  was  practical,  owned  its  beauty. 

For  he  too,  as  we  know,  had  had  his  aspirations,  though 
he  had  rarely  thought  of  turning  them  into  action.  In- 
stead, he  had  hidden  them  behind  the  commonplace;  and 
in  this  he  had  matched  the  times,  which  were  common- 
place. For  the  country  lay  in  the  trough  of  the  wave. 
Neither  the  fine  fury  of  the  generation  which  had  adored 
the  rights  of  man,  nor  the  splendid  endurance  which  the 
great  war  had  fostered,  nor  the  lesser  ardors  of  the  Keform 
era,  which  found  its  single  panacea  in  votes,  touched  or 
ennobled  it.  Great  wealth  and  great  poverty,  jostling  one 
another,  marked  a  material  age,  seeking  remedies  in 
material  things,  despising  arms,  decrying  enthusiasm;  an 
age  which  felt,  but  hardly  bowed  as  yet,  to  the  breath  of 
the  new  spirit. 

But  Basset — perhaps  because  the  present  offered  no  great 
prospect  to  the  straitened  squire — had  had  his  glimpses  of 
a  life  higher  and  finer,  devoted  to  something  above  the 
passing  whim  and  the  day's  indulgence,  a  life  that  should 
not  be  useless  to  those  who  came  after  him.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  he  now  heard  the  call?  Could  this  be  the 
crusade  of  which  he  had  idly  dreamed?  Had  the  trumpet 
sounded  at  the  moment  of  his  utmost  need  ? 

If  only  it  were  so !  During  the  evening  he  had  kept  his 
sorrow  at  bay  as  well  as  he  could,  distracting  his  thoughts 
with  passing  objects.  Now,  as  the  boots  ushered  him  up 
the  close-smelling  stairs  to  the  inn's  best  room,  and  he 
stood  in  his  hat  and  coat,  looking  on  the  cold  bare  aspect 
and  the  unfamiliar  things — he  owned  himself  desolate. 
The  thought  of  Mary,  of  his  hopes  and  plans  and  of  the 
end  of  these,  returned  upon  him  in  an  irresistible  flood. 
The  waters  which  he  had  stemmed  all  day,  though  all  day 
they  had  lapped  his  lips,  overwhelmed  him  with  their 
bitterness.  Mary!  He  had  loved  her  and  she — he  knew 
what  she  thought  of  him. 


144  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

He  could  not  take  up  the  old  life.  She  had  made  an  end 
of  that,  the  rather  as  from  this  time  onward  the  Gatehouse 
would  be  closed  to  him  by  her  presence.  And  the  old 
house  near  Wootton  where  he  had  been  wont  to  pass  part  of 
his  time?  That  hardly  met  his  needs  or  his  aspirations. 
Unhappy  as  he  was,  he  could  not  see  himself  sitting  down 
in  idleness,  to  brood  and  to  rust  in  a  home  so  remote,  so 
quiet,  so  lost  among  the  stony  hills  that  the  country  said 
of  it, 

"  Wootton  under  Weaver 
Where  God  came  never !  " 

No,  he  could  hardly  face  that.  Hitherto  he  had  not  been 
called  upon  to  say  what  he  would  do  with  his  life.  Now 
the  question  was  put  to  him  and  he  had  to  answer  it.  He 
had  to  answer  it.  For  many  minutes  he  sat  on  the  bed 
staring  before  him.  And  from  time  to  time  he  sighed. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

THE   GREAT   HOUSE  AT   BEAUDELAYS 

IT  was  about  a  week  after  this  that  two  men  stood  on  the 
neglected  lawn,  contemplating  the  long  blind  front  of 
Beaudelays  House.  With  all  its  grandeur  the  house  lacked 
the  dignity  of  ruin,  for  ruin  presumes  a  past,  and  the 
larger  part  of  the  Great  House  had  no  past.  The  ancient 
wing  that  had  welcomed  brides,  and  echoed  the  laughter  of 
children  and  given  back  the  sullen  notes  of  the  passing- 
bell  did  not  suffice  to  redeem  the  whole.  By  night  the 
house  might  pass;  the  silent  bulk  imposed  on  the  eye.  By 
day  it  required  no  effort  of  fancy  to  see  the  scaffold  still 
clinging  to  the  brickwork,  or  to  discern  that  the  grand 
entrance  had  never  opened  to  guest  or  neighbor,  that  every- 
day life  had  never  gazed  through  the  blank  windows  of  the 
long  facade. 

The  house,  indeed,  was  not  only  dead.  It  had  never 
lived. 

Certainly  Nature  had  done  something  to  shroud  the 
dead.  The  lawn  was  knee-deep  in  weeds,  and  the  ever- 
greens about  it  had  pushed  out  embracing  arms  to  narrow 
the  vista  before  the  windows.  At  the  lower  end  of  the 
lawn  a  paved  terrace,  the  width  of  the  house,  promised  a 
freer  air,  but  even  here  grass  sprouted  between  the  flags, 
and  elders  labored  to  uproot  the  stately  balustrade  that 
looked  on  the  lower  garden.  This  garden,  once  formal,  was 
now  a  tangle  of  vegetation,  a  wilderness  amid  whose  broad 
walks  Venuses  slowly  turned  to  Dryads,  and  classic  urns 
lay  in  fragments,  split  by  the  frosts  of  some  excessive 
winter.  Only  the  prospect  of  the  Trent  Valley  and  the 


146  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Derbyshire  foot-hills,  visible  beyond  the  pleasance,  still 
pleased;  and  this  view  was  vague  and  sad  and  distant. 
For  the  Great  House,  as  became  its  greatness,  shunned  the 
public  eye,  and,  lying  far  back,  set  a  wide  stretch  of  park 
between  its  bounds  and  the  verge  of  the  upland. 

One  of  the  two  men  was  the  owner.  The  other  who 
bore  a  bunch  of  keys  was  Stubbs.  Both  had  a  depressed 
air.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two 
entered  more  deeply  into  the  sadness  of  the  place. 

Presently  my  lord  turned  his  back  on  the  house.  "  The 
view  is  fine,"  he  said.  "The  only  fine  thing  about  the 
place,"  he  added  bitterly.  "  Isn't  there  a  sort  of  Belvedere 
below  the  garden  ?  " 

"  There  is,  my  lord.    But  I  fear  that  it  is  out  of  repair." 

"  Like  everything  else  !  There,  don't  think  I'm  blaming 
you  for  it,  man.  You  cannot  make  bricks  without  straw. 
But  let  us  look  at  this  Belvedere." 

They  descended  the  steps,  and  passed  slowly  along  the 
grass-grown  walk,  now  and  again  stepping  aside  to  avoid 
the  clutch  of  a  straggling  rose  bough,  or  the  fragments  of 
a  broken  pillar.  They  paused  to  inspect  the  sundial,  a 
giant  Butterfly  with  closed  wings,  a  replica  of  the  stone 
monster  in  the  Yew  Walk.  Lord  Audley  read  the  inscrip- 
tion, barely  visible  through  the  verdigris  that  stained  the 
dial-plate : 

"  Non  sine  sole  volo ! " 

"  Just  so !  "  he  said.    "  A  short  life  and  a  merry  one !  " 

A  few  paces  farther  along  the  walk  they  stopped  to 

examine  the  basin  of  the  great  fountain.     Cracked  from 

edge  to  centre,  and  become  a  shallow  bed  of  clay  and  weeds, 

it  was  now  as  unsightly  as  it  had  been  beautiful  in  the  days 

when  fair  women  leaning  over  it  had  fed  the  gold  fish,  or 

viewed  their  mirrored  faces  in  its  waters. 

"  The  fortunes  of  the  Audleys  in  a  nutshell ! "  muttered 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE  AT  BEAU  DELAYS          147 

the  unlucky  owner.  And  turning  on  his  heel,  "  Confound 
it,  Stubbs,"  he  cried,  "  I  have  had  as  much  of  this  as  I 
can  stand !  A  little  more  and  I  shall  go  back  and  cut  my 
throat !  It  is  beginning  to  rain,  too.  D — n  the  Belvedere ! 
Let  us  go  into  the  house.  That  cannot  be  as  bad  as 
this." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  or  looking  behind  him, 
he  strode  back  the  way  they  had  come.  Stubbs  followed  in 
silence,  and  they  regained  the  lawn. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  Audley  continued,  letting  the 
agent  come  abreast  of  him.  "  You  must  find  some  vul- 
garian to  take  the  place — iron  man  or  cotton  man,  I  don't 
care  who  he  is,  if  he  has  got  the  cash!  You  must  let  it, 
Stubbs.  You  must  let  it!  It's  a  white  elephant,  it's  the 
d — ndest  White  Elephant  man  ever  had ! " 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head.  "You  may  be  sure,  my 
lord,"  he  said  mildly,  "  I  should  have  advised  that  long 
ago,  if  it  were  possible.  But  we  couldn't  let  it  in  its 
present  state — for  a  short  term;  and  we  have  no  more 
power  to  lease  it  for  a  long  one  than,  as  your  lordship 
knows,  we  have  power  to  sell  it." 

The  other  swore.  At  the  outset  he  had  scarcely  felt  his 
poverty.  But  he  was  beginning  to  feel  it.  There  were 
moments  such  as  this  when  his  withers  were  wrung;  when 
the  consequence  which  the  title  had  brought  failed  to  soften 
the  hardships  of  his  lot — a  poor  peer  with  a  vast  house. 
Had  he  tried  to  keep  the  Great  House  in  repair  it  would 
have  swallowed  the  whole  income  of  the  peerage — a  sum 
which,  as  it  was,  barely  sufficed  for  his  needs  as  a  bachelor. 

Already  Stubbs  had  hinted  that  there  was  one  way  out 
— a  rich  marriage.  And  Audley  had  received  the  hint  with 
the  easiness  of  a  man  who  was  in  no  haste  to  marry  and 
might,  likely  enough,  marry  where  money  was.  But  once 
or  twice  during  the  last  few  days,  which  they  had  been 
spending  in  a  review  of  the  property,  my  lord  had  shown 
irritation.  When  an  old  farmer  had  said  to  his  face,  that 


148  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

he  must  bring  home  a  bride  with  a  good  fat  chest,  "  and 
his  lordship  would  be  what  his  forbears  had  been,"  the 
great  man,  in  place  of  a  laughing  answer,  had  turned 
glumly  away. 

Presently  the  two  halted  at  the  door  of  the  north  wing. 
Stubbs  unlocked  it  and  pushed  it  open.  They  entered  an 
ante-room  of  moderate  size. 

"  Faugh !  "  Audley  cried.  "  Open  a  window !  Break 
one  if  necessary." 

Stubbs  succeeded  in  opening  one,  and  they  passed  on 
into  the  great  hall,  a  room  sixty  feet  long  and  open  to  the 
roof,  a  gallery  running  round  it.  A  withdrawing-room  of 
half  the  length  opened  at  one  end,  and  midway  along  the 
inner  side  a  short  passage  led  to  a  second  hall — the  serv- 
ants' hall — the  twin  of  this.  Together  they  formed  an  H, 
and  were  probably  a  Jacobean  copy  of  a  Henry  the  Eighth 
building.  A  long  table,  some  benches,  and  a  score  of  mas- 
sive chairs  furnished  the  room.  Between  the  windows  hung 
a  few  ragged  pictures,  and  on  either  side  of  the  farther 
door  a  piece  of  tapestry  hung  askew. 

Audley  looked  about  him.  In  this  room  eighty  years 
before  the  old  lord  had  held  his  revels.  The  two  hearths 
had  glowed  with  logs,  a  hundred  wax-lights  had  shone  on 
silver  and  glass  and  the  rosy  tints  of  old  wine.  Guests  in 
satin  and  velvet,  henchmen  and  led  captains,  had  filled  it 
with  laughter  and  jest,  and  song.  With  a  foot  on  the 
table  they  had  toasted  the  young  king — not  stout  Farmer 
George,  not  the  old,  mad  monarch,  but  the  gay  young  sov- 
ereign. To-day  desolation  reigned.  The  windows  gray 
with  dirt  let  in  a  grisly  light.  All  was  bare  and  cold  and 
rusty — the  webs  of  spiders  crossed  the  very  hearths.  The 
old  lord,  mouldering  in  his  coffin,  was  not  more  unlike  that 
Georgian  reveller  than  was  the  room  of  to-day  unlike  the 
room  of  eighty  years  before. 

Perhaps  the  thought  struck  his  descendant.  "  God ! 
What  a  charnel-house ! "  he  cried.  "  To  think  that  men 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE  AT  BEAU  DELAYS          149 

made  merry  in  this  room.  It's  a  vault,  it's  a  grave !  Let 
us  get  away  from  it.  What's  through,  man?  " 

They  passed  into  the  withdra wing-room,  where  panels  of 
needlework  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  gloomy  with  age,  filled 
the  wall  spaces,  and  a  few  pieces  of  furniture  crouched 
under  shrouds  of  dust.  As  they  stood  gazing  two  rats 
leapt  from  a  screen  of  Cordovan  leather  that  lay  in  tatters 
on  the  floor.  The  rats  paused  an  instant  to  stare  at  the 
intruders,  then  fled  in  panic. 

The  younger  man  advanced  to  one  of  the  panels  in  the 
wall.  "  A  hunting  scene  ?  "  he  said.  "  These  may  be 
worth  money  some  day." 

The  lawyer  looked  doubtful.  "It  will  be  a  long  day 
first,  I  am  afraid/'  he  said.  "  It's  funereal  stuff  at  the 
best,  my  lord." 

"  At  any  rate  it  is  out  of  reach  of  the  rats,"  Lord  Audley 
answered.  He  cast  a  look  of  distaste  at  the  shreds  of  the 
screen.  He  touched  them  with  his  foot  A  third  rat 
sprang  out  and  fled  squeaking  to  covert  "  Oh,  d — n !  " 
he  said.  "  Let  us  see  something  else." 

The  lawyer  led  the  way  upstairs  to  the  ghostly,  echoing 
gallery  that  ran  round  the  hall.  They  glanced  into  the 
principal  guest-room,  which  was  over  the  drawing-room. 
Then  they  went  by  the  short  passage  of  the  H  to  the 
range  of  bedrooms  over  the  servants'  hall.  For  the  most 
part  they  opened  one  from  the  other. 

"  The  parents  slept  in  the  outer  and  the  young  ladies  in 
the  inner,"  Audley  said,  smiling/  "  Gad !  it  tells  a  tale 
of  the  times !  " 

Stubbs  opened  the  nearest  door  and  recoiled.  "Take 
care,  my  lord !  "  he  said.  "  Here  are  the  bats !  " 

"  Faugh !    What  a  smell !    Can't  you  keep  them  out  ?  " 

"  We  tried  years  ago — I  hate  them  like  poison — but  it 
was  of  no  use.  They  are  in  all  these  upper  rooms." 

They  were.  For  when  Stubbs,  humping  his  shoulders  as 
under  a  shower,  opened  a  second  door,  the  bats  streamed 


ISO  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

forth  in  a  long  silent  procession,  only  to  stream  back  again 
as  silently.  In  a  dusky  corner  of  the  second  room  a 
cluster,  like  a  huge  bunch  of  grapes,  hung  to  one  of  the 
rafters.  Now  and  again  a  bat  detached  itself  and  joined 
the  living  current  that  swept  without  a  sound  through  the 
shadowy  rooms. 

"  There's  nothing  beyond  these  rooms  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  let  us  go  down.  Rats  and  bats  and  rottenness ! 
Non  sine  sole  volo!  We  may  not,  but  the  bats  do.  Let 
us  go  down!  Or  no!  I  was  forgetting.  Where  is  the 
Muniment  Room  ?  " 

"This  way,  my  lord/'  Stubbs  replied,  turning  with 
suspicious  readiness — the  bats  were  his  pet  aversion.  "  I 
brought  a  candle  and  some  of  the  new  lucifers.  This  way, 
my  lord." 

He  led  the  way  down  to  a  door  set  in  a  corner  of  the 
ante-room.  He  unlocked  this  and  they  found  themselves  at 
the  foot  of  a  circular  staircase.  On  the  farther  side  of  the 
stairfoot  was  another  door  which  led,  Stubbs  explained, 
into  the  servants'  quarters.  "  This  turret,"  he  added,  "  is 
older  even  than  the  wing,  and  forms  no  part  of  the  H.  It 
was  retained  because  it  supplied  a  second  staircase,  and 
also  a  short  cut  from  the  servants'  hall  to  the  entrance. 
The  Muniment  Room  is  over  this  lobby  on  the  first  floor. 
Allow  me  to  go  first,  my  lord." 

The  air  was  close,  but  not  unpleasant,  and  the  stairs 
were  clean.  On  the  first  floor  a  low-browed  door,  clamped 
and  studded  with  iron,  showed  itself.  Stubbs  halted  before 
it.  There  was  a  sputter.  A  light  shone  out.  "  Wonderful 
invention !  "  he  said.  "  Electric  telegraph  not  more  won- 
derful, though  marvellous  invention  that,  my  lord." 

"  Yes,"  the  other  answered  dryly.  "  But — when  were 
you  here  last,  Stubbs  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  twelvemonth,  my  lord." 

"  Leave  your  candle  ?  " 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE  AT  BEAU  DELAYS          151 

"  No." 

"  Then  what's  that  ?  "  The  young  man  pointed  to  some- 
thing that  lay  in  the  angle  between  a  stair  and  the 
wall. 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  the  lawyer  cried.    "  It's  a  candle." 

"  And  clean.  It  has  not  been  there  a  week.  Who  has 
been  here,  my  friend  ?  " 

Stubbs  reflected.  "  No  one  with  my  authority,"  he  said. 
"But  if  the  devil  himself  has  been  here,"  he  continued, 
stoutly  recovering  himself,  "  he  can  have  done  no  harm.  I 
can  prove  that  in  five  minutes,  my  lord — if  you  will  kindly 
hold  the  light."  He  inserted  a  large  key  in  the  lock,  and 
with  an  effort,  he  shot  back  the  bolts.  He  pushed  open  the 
door  and  signed  to  Lord  Audley  to  enter. 

He  did  so,  and  Stubbs  followed.  They  stood  and  looked 
about  them.  They  were  in  a  whitewashed  chamber  twelve 
feet  square,  clean,  bare,  empty.  The  walls  gave  back  the 
light  so  that  the  one  candle  lit  the  place  perfectly. 

"It's  as  good  as  air-tight,"  Stubbs  said  with  pride. 
"  And  you  see,  my  lord,  we  swept  it  as  bare  as  the  palm  of 
my  hand.  I  can  answer  for  it  that  not  a  shred  of  paper 
or  a  piece  of  wax  was  left." 

Audley,  gazing  about  him,  seemed  satisfied.  His  face 
relaxed.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "you  could  not  overlook  any- 
thing in  a  place  like  this.  I'm  glad  I've  seen  it." 

He  was  turning  to  go  when  a  thought  struck  him.  He 
lowered  the  light  and  scanned  the  floor.  "  All  the  same, 
somebody  has  been  here !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  There's  one  of 
the  things  you  are  so  pleased  with — a  lucifer !  " 

Stubbs  stooped  and  looked.  "  A  lucifer  ?  "  he  repeated. 
He  picked  up  the  bit  of  charred  wood  and  examined  it. 
"  Now  how  did  that  come  here?  I  never  used  one  till  six 
months  ago." 

My  lord  frowned.    "  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Some  one,  I  fear,  who  has  had  a  key  made,"  the  agent 
answered,  shaking  his  head, 


152  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"I  can  see  that  for  myself.  But  has  he  learned  any- 
thing?" 

Stubbs  stared.  "  There's  nothing  to  learn,  my  lord,"  he 
said.  "You  can  see  that.  Whoever  he  is,  he  has  cracked 
the  nut  and  found  no  kernel ! " 

The  young  man  looked  round  him  again.  He  nodded. 
"I  suppose  so,"  he  said.  But  he  seemed  ill  at  ease  and 
inclined  to  find  fault.  He  threw  the  light  of  the  candle 
this  way  and  that,  as  if  he  expected  the  clean  white  walls 
to  tell  a  tale.  "What's  that?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "A 
crack?  Or  what?" 

Stubbs  looked,  passed  his  hand  over  the  mark  on  the 
wall,  effaced  it.  "  No,  my  lord,  a  cobweb,"  he  said. 
«  Nothing." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  seen,  yet  Audley  seemed  loth 
to  go.  At  length  he  turned  and  went  out.  Stubbs  closed 
and  locked  the  door  behind  them,  then  he  took  the  candle 
from  his  lordship  and  invited  him  to  go  down  before  him. 
Still  the  young  man  hesitated.  "  I  suppose  we  can  learn 
nothing  more  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Nothing,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  answered.  "  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  have  long  thought  Mr.  John  mad,  and  it  is 
possible  that  his  madness  has  taken  this  turn.  But  I  am 
equally  sure  that  there  is  nothing  for  him  to  discover,  if 
he  spends  every  day  of  his  life  here." 

"All  the  same  I  don't  like  it,"  the  owner  objected. 
"  Whoever  has  been  here  has  no  right  here.  It  is  odd  that 
I  had  some  notion  of  this  before  we  came.  You  may 
depend  upon  it  that  this  was  why  he  fixed  himself  at  the 
Gatehouse." 

"  He  may  have  had  something  of  the  sort  in  his  mind," 
Stubbs  admitted.  "  But  I  don't  think  so,  my  lord.  More 
probably,  being  here  and  idle,  he  took  to  wandering  in  for 
lack  of  something  to  do." 

"  And  by  and  by,  had  a  key  made  and  strayed  into  the 
Muniment  Boom!  No,  that  won't  do,  Stubbs.  And 


THE  GREAT  HOUSE  AT  BEAU  DELAYS          153 

frankly  there  should  be  closer  supervision  here.  It  should 
not  have  remained  for  me  to  discover  this." 

He  began  to  descend,  leaving  Stubbs  to  digest  the 
remark;  who  for  his  part  thought  honestly  that  too  much 
was  being  made  of  the  matter.  Probably  the  intruder  was 
John  Audley;  the  man  had  a  bee  in  his  bonnet,  and  what 
more  likely  than  that  he  should  be  taken  with  a  craze  to 
haunt  the  house  which  he  believed  was  his  own?  But  the 
agent  was  too  prudent  to  defend  himself  while  the  young 
man's  vexation  was  fresh.  He  followed  him  down  in 
silence,  and  before  many  minutes  had  passed,  they  were  in 
the  open  air,  and  had  locked  the  door  behind  them. 

Clouds  hung  low  on  the  tops  of  the  trees,  mist  veiled 
the  view,  and  a  small  rain  was  falling  on  the  wet  lawn. 
Nevertheless  the  young  man  moved  into  the  open.  "  Come 
this  way,"  he  said. 

The  lawyer  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  followed 
him  unwillingly.  "  Where  does  he  get  in  ? "  my  lord 
asked.  It  seemed  as  if  the  longer  he  dwelt  on  the  matter 
the  less  he  liked  it.  "  Not  by  that  door — the  lock  is  rusty. 
The  key  had  shrieked  in  it.  Probably  he  enters  by  one  of 
the  windows  in  the  new  part." 

He  walked  towards  the  middle  of  the  lawn  and  Stubbs, 
thankful  that  he  wore  Wellington  boots,  followed  him. 

The  lawyer  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  the  house 
wear  so  dreary  an  aspect  as  it  wore  under  the  gray  weeping 
sky.  But  his  lordship  was  more  practical.  "  These 
windows  look  the  most  likely,"  he  said  after  a  short  survey : 
and  he  dragged  his  unwilling  attendant  to  the  point  he  had 
marked. 

A  nearer  view  strengthened  his  suspicions.  On  the  sill 
of  one  of  the  windows  were  scratches  and  stains.  "  You 
see?"  he  said.  "It  should  not  have  been  left  to  me  to 
discover  this!  Probably  John  Audley  comes  from  the 
Gatehouse  by  the  Yew  Walk."  He  turned  to  measure  the 
distance  with  his  eye,  the  distance  which  divided  the  spot 


154  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

from  the  Iron  Gate.    "  That's  it,"  he  said,  "  he  comes " 

Then,  «  Good  G— d !  "  he  muttered.  "  Look !  Look !  " 
Stubbs  looked.  They  both  looked.  Beyond  the  lawn,  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  iron  grille  and  clinging  to  it  with 
both  hands,  a  man  stood  bareheaded  under  the  rain. 
Whether  he  had  come  uncovered,  or  his  hat  had  been  jerked 
from  him  by  some  movement  caused  by  their  appearance, 
they  could  not  tell ;  nor  how  long  he  had  stood  thus,  gazing 
at  them  through  the  bars.  But  they  could  see  that  his  eyes 
never  wavered,  that  his  hands  gripped  the  iron,  and  the 
two  knew  by  instinct  that  in  the  intensity  of  his  hate,  the 
man  was  insensible  alike  to  the  rain  that  drenched  him, 
and  to  the  wind  that  blew  out  the  skirts  of  his  thin  black 
coat. 

Even  Stubbs  held  his  breath.  Even  he  felt  that  there 
was  something  uncanny  and  ominous  in  the  appearance. 
For  the  gazer  was  John  Audley. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TO   THE   RESCUE 

STUBBS  was  the  first  to  collect  himself,  but  a  minute 
elapsed  before  he  spoke.  Then,  "  He  must  be  mad,"  he 
cried,  "mad,  to  expose  himself  to  the  weather  at  his  age. 
If  I  had  not  seen  it,  I  couldn't  believe  it ! " 

"  I  suppose  it  is  John  Audley  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Then  raising  his  voice,  "  My  lord !  I  don't 
think  I  would  go  to  him  now !  " 

But  Audley  was  already  striding  across  the  lawn  towards 
the  gate.  The  lawyer  hesitated,  gave  way,  and  followed 
him. 

They  were  within  twenty  paces  of  the  silent  watcher 
when  he  moved — up  to  that  time  he  might  have  been  a  lay 
figure.  He  shook  one  hand  in  the  air,  as  if  he  would  beat 
them  off,  then  he  turned  and  walked  stiffly  away.  Half  a 
dozen  steps  took  him  out  of  sight.  The  Yew  Walk  swal- 
lowed him. 

But,  quickly  as  he  vanished,  the  lawyer  had  had  time  to 
see  that  he  staggered.  "  I  fear,  my  lord,  he  is  ill,"  he  said. 
"  He  will  never  reach  the  Gatehouse  in  that  state.  I  had 
better  follow  him." 

"Why  the  devil  did  he  come  here?"  Audley  retorted 
savagely.  The  watcher's  strange  aspect,  his  face,  white 
against  the  dark  yews,  his  stillness,  his  gesture,  a  something 
ominous  in  all,  had  shaken  him.  "  If  he  had  stopped  at 
home " 


Still- 


"  D— n  him,  it's  his  affair !  " 

"  Still  we  cannot  leave  him  if  he  has  fallen,  my  lord/' 


156  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Stubbs  replied  with  decision.  And  without  waiting  for  his 
employer's  assent  he  tried  the  gate.  It  was  locked,  but  in 
a  trice  he  found  the  key  on  his  bunch,  turned  it,  and  pushed 
back  the  gate.  Audley  noticed  that  it  moved  silently  on  its 
hinges. 

Stubbs,  the  gate  open,  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  his  im- 
pulse. Probably  there  was  nothing  amiss  after  all.  But 
he  had  hardly  looked  along  the  path  before  he  uttered  a 
cry,  and  hurrying  forward,  stooped  over  a  bundle  of  clothes 
that  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  walk.  It  was  John  Audley. 
Apparently  he  had  tripped  over  a  root  and  lain  where  he 
had  fallen. 

Stubbs's  cry  summoned  the  other,  who  followed  him 
through  the  gate,  to  find  him  on  his  knees  supporting  the 
old  man's  head.  The  sight  recalled  Audle}r  to  his  better 
self.  The  mottled  face,  the  staring  eyes,  the  helpless  limbs 
shocked  him.  "  Good  G — d !  "  he  cried,  "  you  were  right, 
Stubbs !  He  might  have  died  if  we  had  left  him." 

"  He  would  have  died/'  Stubbs  answered.  "  As  it  is — I 
am  not  sure."  He  opened  the  waistcoat,  felt  for  the  beat- 
ing of  the  heart,  bent  his  ear  to  it.  "  No,  I  don't  think 
he's  gone,"  he  said,  "but  the  heart  is  feeble,  very  feeble. 
We  must  have  brandy !  My  lord,  you  are  the  more  active. 
Will  you  go  to  the  Gatehouse — there  is  no  nearer  place — 
and  get  some?  And  something  to  carry  him  home!  A 
hurdle  if  there  is  nothing  better,  and  a  couple  of  men?" 

"  Eight !  "  Audley  cried. 

"  And  don't  lose  a  minute,  my  lord !    He's  nearly  gone." 

Audley  stripped  off  his  overcoat.  "  Wrap  this  about 
him !  "  he  said.  And  before  the  other  could  answer  he  had 
started  for  the  Gatehouse,  at  a  pace  which  he  believed  that 
he  could  keep  up. 

Pad,  pad,  my  lord  ran  under  the  yew  trees,  swish,  swish 
across  the  soaking  grass,  about  the  great  Butterfly.  Pad, 
pad,  again  through  the  gloom  under  the  yews!  Not  too 
fast,  he  told  himself — he  was  a  big  man  and  he  must  save 


TO  THE  RESCUE  I5/- 

himself.  Now  he  saw  before  him  the  opening  into  the 
park,  and  the  light  falling  on  the  pale  turf.  And  then, 
at  a  point  not  more  than  twenty  yards  short  of  the  open 
ground,  he  tripped  over  a  root,  tried  to  recover  himself, 
struck  another  root,  and  fell. 

The  fall  shook  him,  but  he  was  young,  and  he  was 
quickly  on  his  feet.  He  paused  an  instant  to  brush  the  dirt 
from  his  hands  and  knees ;  and  it  was  during  that  instant 
that  his  inbred  fear  of  John  Audley,  and  the  certainty  that 
if  John  Audley  died  he  need  fear  no  more,  rose  before 
him. 

Yes,  if  he  died — this  man  who  was  even  now  plotting 
against  him — there  was  an  end  of  that  fear !  There  was  an 
end  of  uneasiness,  of  anxiety,  of  the  alarm  that  assailed 
him  in  the  small  hours,  of  the  forebodings  that  showed  him 
stripped  of  title  and  income  and  consequence.  Stripped  of 
all! 

Five  seconds  passed,  and  he  still  stood,  engaged  with^his 
hands.  Five  more ;  it  was  his  knees  he  was  brushing  now 
— and  very  carefully.  Another  five — the  sweat  broke  out 
on  his  brow  though  the  day  was  cold.  Twenty  seconds, 
twenty-five!  His  face  showed  white  in  the  gloom.  And 
still  he  stood.  He  glanced  behind  him.  No  one  could  see 
him. 

But  the  movement  discovered  the  man  to  himself,  and 
with  an  oath  he  broke  away.  He  thrust  the  damning 
thought  from  him,  he  sprang  forward.  He  ran.  In  ten 
strides  he  was  in  the  open  park,  and  trotting  steadily,  his 
elbows  to  his  sides,  across  the  sward.  The  blessed  light 
was  about  him,  the  wind  swept  past  his  ears,  the  cleansing 
rain  whipped  his  face.  Thank  God,  he  had  left  behind  him 
the  heavy  air  and  noisome  scent  of  the  yews.  He  hated 
them.  He  would  cut  them  all  down  some  day. 

For  in  a  strange  way  he  associated  them  with  the  tempta- 
tion which  had  assailed  him.  And  he  was  thankful,  most 
thankful,  that  he  had  put  that  temptation  from  him— had 


158  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

put  it  from  him,  when  most  men,  he  thought,  would  have 
succumbed  to  it.  Thank  God,  he  had  not!  The  farther 
he  went,  indeed,  the  better  he  felt.  By  the  time  he  saw  the 
Gatehouse  before  him,  he  was  sure  that  few  men,  exposed 
to  that  temptation,  would  have  overcome  it. 

For  if  John  Audley  died  what  a  relief  it  would  be !  And 
he  had  looked  very  ill;  he  had  looked  like  a  man  at  the 
point  of  death.  The  brandy  could  not  reach  him  under — 
well,  under  half  an  hour.  Half  an  hour  was  a  long  time, 
when  a  man  looked  like  that.  "  I'll  do  my  best/'  he 
thought.  "  Then  if  he  dies,  well  and  good.  I've  always 
been  afraid  of  him/' 

He  did  not  spare  himself,  but  he  was  not  in  training, 
and  he  was  well  winded  when  he  reached  the  Gatehouse. 
A  last  effort  carried  him  between  the  Butterflies,  and  he 
halted  on  the  flags  of  the  courtyard.  A  woman,  whose 
skirts  were  visible,  but  whose  head  and  shoulders  were 
hidden  by  an  umbrella,  was  standing  in  the  doorway  on 
his  left,  speaking  to  some  one  in  the  house.  She  heard 
his  footsteps  and  turned. 

"  Lord  Audley !  "  she  exclaimed — for  it  was  Mary  Aud- 
ley. Then  with  a  woman's  quickness,  "You  have  come 
from  my  uncle  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Is  he  ill  ?  " 

Audley  nodded.  "I  am  come  for  some  brandy ,"  he 
gasped. 

She  did  not  waste  a  moment.  She  sped  into  the  house, 
and  to  the  dining-room.  "  I  had  missed  him,"  she  cried 
over  her  shoulder.  "  The  man-servant  is  away.  I  hoped 
he  might  be  with  him." 

In  a  trice  she  had  opened  a  cellarette  and  taken  from  it 
a  decanter  of  brandy.  Then  she  saw  that  he  could  not 
carry  this  at  any  speed,  and  she  turned  to  the  sideboard 
and  took  a  wicker  flask  from  a  drawer.  With  a  steady  hand 
and  without  the  loss  of  a  minute — he  found  her  presence  of 
mind  admirable — she  filled  this. 

As  she  corked  it,  Mrs.  Toft  appeared,  wiping  her  hands 


TO  THE  RESCUE  159 

on  her  apron.  "  Dear,  dear,  miss,"  she  said,  "  is  the  master 
bad  ?  But  it's  no  wonder  when  he,  that  doesn't  quit  the  fire 
for  a  week  together,  goes  out  like  this?  And  Toft  away 
and  all !  "  She  stared  at  his  lordship.  Probably  she  knew 
him  by  sight. 

"  Will  you  get  his  bed  warmed,  Mrs.  Toft,"  Mary 
answered.  She  gave  Lord  Audley  the  flask.  "  Please  don't 
lose  a  moment,"  she  urged.  "I  am  following — oh  yes,  I 
am.  But  you  will  go  faster." 

She  had  not  a  thought,  he  saw,  for  the  disorder  of  her 
dress,  or  for  her  hair  dishevelled  by  the  wind,  and  scarce  a 
thought  for  him.  He  decided  that  he  had  never  seen  her 
to  such  advantage,  but  it  was  no  time  for  compliments,  nor 
was  she  in  the  mood  for  them.  Without  more  he  nodded 
and  set  off  on  his  return  journey — he  had  not  been  in  the 
house  three  minutes.  By  and  by  he  looked  back,  and  saw 
that  Mary  was  following  on  his  heels.  She  had  snatched 
up  a  sun-bonnet,  discarded  the  umbrella,  and,  heedless  of 
the  rain,  was  coming  after  him  as  swiftly  and  lightly  a8 
Atalanta  of  the  golden  apple.  "  Gad,  she's  not  one  of  the 
fainting  sort ! "  he  reflected ;  and  also  that  if  he  had  given 
way  to  that  d — d  temptation  he  could  not  have  looked  her 
in  the  face.  "  As  it  is,"  his  mind  ran,  "  what  are  the  odds 
the  old  boy's  not  dead  when  we  get  there  ?  If  he  is — I  am 
safe!  If  he  is  not,  I  might  do  worse  than  think  of  her. 
It  would  checkmate  him  finely.  More  " — he  looked  again 
over  his  shoulder — "she's  a  fine  mover,  by  Gad,  and  her 
figure's  perfect !  Even  that  rag  on  her  head  don't  spoil 
her ! "  Whereupon  he  thought  of  a  certain  Lady  Adela 
with  whom  he  was  very  friendly,  who  had  political  con- 
nections and  would  some  day  have  a  plum.  The  compari- 
son was  not,  in  the  matter  of  fineness  and  figure,  to  Lady 
Adela's  advantage.  Her  lines  were  rather  on  the  Flemish 
side. 

Meanwhile  Mary  was  feeling  anything  but  an  Atalanta. 
Wind  and  rain  and  wet  grass,  loosened  hair  and  swaying 


160  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

skirts  do  not  make  for  romance.  But  in  her  anxiety  she 
gave  small  thought  to  these.  Her  one  instinct  was  to  help. 
With  all  his  oddity  her  uncle  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  she 
longed  to  show  him  that  she  was  grateful.  And  he  was  her 
one  relative.  She  had  no  one  else  in  the  world.  He  had 
given  her  what  of  home  he  had,  and  ease,  and  a  security 
which  she  had  never  known  before.  Were  she  to  lose  him 
now — the  mere  fancy  spurred  her  to  fresh  exertions,  and 
in  spite  of  a  pain  in  her  side,  in  spite  of  clinging  skirts,  and 
shoes  that  threatened  to  leave  her  feet,  she  pushed  on.  She 
was  not  far  behind  Audley  when  he  reached  the  Yew 
Walk. 

She  saw  him  plunge  into  it,  she  followed,  and  was  on  the 
scene  not  many  seconds  later.  When  she  caught  sight  of 
the  little  group  kneeling  about  the  prostrate  man,  that  sense 
of  tragedy,  and  of  the  inevitable,  which  assails  at  such  a 
time,  shook  her.  The  thing  always  possible,  never  expected, 
had  happened  at  last. 

Then  the  coolness  which  women  find  in  these  emer- 
gencies returned.  She  knelt  between  the  men,  took  the 
insensible  head  on  her  arm,  held  out  her  other  hand  for 
the  cup.  "  Has  he  swallowed  any  ?  "  she  asked,  taking 
command  of  the  situation. 

"  No,"  Toft  answered — and  she  became  aware  that  the 
man  with  Lord  Audley  was  the  servant. 

She  waited  for  no  more,  she  tilted  the  cup,  and  by  some 
knack  she  succeeded  where  Toft  had  failed.  A  little  of  the 
spirit  was  swallowed.  She  improvised  a  pillow  and  laid 
the  head  down  on  it.  "  The  lower  the  better/'  she  mur- 
mured. She  felt  the  hands  and  began  to  rub  one.  "  Rub 
the  other/'  she  said  to  Toft.  "  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to 
get  him  home !  Have  you  a  carriage  ?  How  near  can  you 
bring  it,  Lord  Audley?" 

"  We  can  bring  it  to  the  park  at  the  end  of  the  walk,"  he 
answered.  "  My  agent  has  gone  to  fetch  it." 

"Will  you  hasten  it?"  she  replied.     "Toft  will  stay 


TO  THE  RESCUED  161* 

with  me.  And  bring  something,  please,  on  which  you  can 
carry  him  to  it." 

"At  once/'  Audley  answered,  and  he  went  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  Great  House. 

"  I've  seen  him  as  bad  before,  Miss,"  Toft  said.  "  I 
found  that  he  had  gone  out  without  his  hat  and  I  followed 
him,  but  I  could  not  trace  him  at  once.  I  don't  think  you 
need  feel  alarmed." 

Certainly  the  face  had  lost  its  mottled  look,  the  eyes  were 
now  shut,  the  limbs  lay  more  naturally.  "  If  he  were  only 
at  home !  "  Mary  answered.  "  But  every  moment  he  is 
exposed  to  the  cold  is  against  him.  He  must  be  wet 
through." 

She  induced  the  patient  to  swallow  another  mouthful  of 
brandy,  and  with  their  eyes  on  his  face  the  two  watched 
for  the  first  gleam  of  consciousness.  It  came  suddenly. 
John  Audley's  eyes  opened.  He  stared  at  them. 

His  mind,  however,  still  wandered.  "  I  knew  it ! "  he 
muttered.  "  They  could  not  be  there  and  I  not  know  it ! 

But  the  wall!  The  wall  is  thick— thick  and "  He 

was  silent  again. 

The  rambling  mind  is  to  those  who  are  not  wont  to  deal 
with  it  a  most  uncanny  thing,  and  Mary  looked  at  Toft  to 
see  what  he  made  of  it.  But  the  servant  had  eyes  only  for 
his  master.  He  was  gazing  at  him  with  an  absorbed  face. 

"  Ay,  a  thick  wall !  "  the  sick  man  murmured.  "  They 
may  look  and  look,  they'll  not  see  through  it."  He 
was  silent  a  moment,  then,  "  All  bare !  "  he  murmured. 
"  All  bare !  "  He  chuckled  faintly,  and  tried  to  raise  him- 
self, but  sank  back.  "  Fools !  "  he  whispered,  "  fools,  when 
in  ten  minutes  if  they  took  out  a  brick " 

The  servant  cut  him  short.  "  Here's  his  lordship !  "  he 
cried.  He  spoke  so  sharply  that  Mary  looked  up  in  sur- 
prise, wondering  what  was  amiss.  Lord  Audley  was  within 
three  or  four  paces  of  them — the  carpet  of  yew  leaves  had 
(Jeadened  his  footsteps.  "  Here's  his  lordship,  sir !  "  Toft 


162  '  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

repeated  in  the  same  tone,  his  mouth  close  to  John  Audley's 
ear. 

The  servant's  manner  shocked  Mary.  "  Hush,  Toft !  " 
she  said.  "  Do  you  want  to  startle  him  ?  " 

"His  lordship  will  startle  him,"  Toft  retorted.  He 
looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  without  ceremony  he  signed 
to  Lord  Audley  to  stand  hack. 

"  Bare,  quite  bare ! "  John  Audley  muttered,  his  mind 
still  far  away.  "But  if  they  took  out — if  they  took 
out " 

Toft  waved  his  hand  again — waved  it  wildly. 

"  All  right,  I  understand,"  Lord  Audley  said.  He  had 
not  at  first  grasped  what  was  wanted,  but  the  man's  re- 
peated gestures  enlightened  him.  He  retired  to  a  position 
where  he  was  out  of  the  sick  man's  sight. 

The  servant  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow.  "He 
mustn't  see  him !  "  he  repeated  insistently.  "  Lord !  what 
a  turn  it  gave  me.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Miss,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  but  I  know  the  master  so  well."  He  cast  an 
uneasy  glance  over  his  shoulder.  "  If  the  master's  eyes 
lit  on  him  once,  only  once,  when  he's  in  this  state,  I'd  not 
answer  for  his  life." 

Mary  reproached  herself.  "  You  are  quite  right,  Toft," 
she  said.  "  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that  myself." 

"  He  must  not  see  any  strangers !  " 

"  He  shall  not.    You  are  quite  righi" 

But  Toft  was  still  uneasy.  He  looked  round.  Stubbs 
and  a  man  who  had  been  working  in  the  neighborhood  were 
bringing  up  a  sheep-hurdle,  and  again  the  butler's  anxiety 
overcame  him.  "  D — n !  "  he  said :  and  he  rose  to  his  feet. 
"  I  think  they  want  to  kill  him  amongst  them !  Why  can't 
they  keep  away?" 

"Hush!    Toft.    Why " 

"  He  mustn't  see  the  lawyer !  He  must  not  see  him  on 
any  account." 

Mary  nodded.    "  I  will  arrange  it !  "  she  said.    "  Only 


TO  THE  RESCUE  163 

don't  excite  him.  You  will  do  him  harm  that  way  if  you 
are  not  careful.  I  will  speak  to  them." 

She  went  to  meet  them  and  explained,  while  Stubbs,  who 
had  not  seen  her  before,  considered  her  with  interest.  So 
this  was  Miss  Audley,  Peter  Audley's  daughter!  She  told 
them  that  she  thought  it  better  that  her  uncle  should  not 
find  strangers  about  him  when  he  came  to  himself.  They 
agreed — it  seemed  quite  natural — and  it  was  arranged  that 
Toft  and  the  man  should  carry  him  as  far  as  the  carriage, 
while  Mary  walked  beside  him;  and  that  afterwards  she 
and  Toft  should  travel  with  him.  The  carriage  cushions 
were  placed  on  the  hurdle,  and  the  helpless  man  was 
lifted  on  to  them.  Toft  and  the  laborer  raised  their 
burden,  and  slowly  and  heavily,  with  an  occasional  stagger, 
they  bore  it  along  the  sodden  path.  Mary  saw  that  the 
sweat  sprang  out  on  Toft's  sallow  face  and  that  his  knees 
shook  under  him.  Clearly  the  man  was  taxing  his  strength 
to  the  utmost,  and  she  felt  some  concern — she  had  not  given 
him  credit  for  such  fidelity.  However,  he  held  out  until 
they  reached  the  carriage. 

Babbling  a  word  now  and  again,  John  Audley  was  moved 
into  the  vehicle.  Mary  mounted  beside  him  and  supported 
his  head,  while  Toft  climbed  to  the  box,  and  at  a  foot- 
pace they  set  off  across  the  sward,  the  laborer  plodding  at 
the  tail  of  the  carriage,  and  Lord  Audley  and  Stubbs  fol- 
lowing a  score  of  paces  behind.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but 
the  clouds  were  low  and  leaden,  the  trees  dripped  sadly, 
and  the  little  procession  across  the  park  had  a  funereal  look. 
To  Mary  the  way  seemed  long,  to  Toft  still  longer.  With 
every  moment  his  head  was  round.  His  eyes  were  now  on 
his  master,  now  jealously  cast  on  those  who  brought  up  the 
rear.  But  everything  comes  to  an  end,  and  at  length  they 
swung  into  the  courtyard,  where  Mrs.  Toft,  capable  and 
cool,  met  them  and  took  a  load  off  Mary's  shoulders. 

"He's  that  bad  is  he?"  she  said  calmly.  "Then  the 
sooner  he's  in  his  bed  the  better.  'Truria's  warming  it. 


164  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

How  will  we  get  him  up?  I  could  carry  him  myself  if 
that's  all.  If  Toft'll  take  his  feet,  I'll  do  the  rest  No 
need  for  another  soul  to  come  in !  "  with  a  glance  at  Lord 
Audley.  "  But  if  they  would  fetch  the  doctor  I'd  not  say 
no,  Miss." 

"  I'll  ask  them  to  do  that,"  Mary  said. 

"  And  don't  you  worrit,  Miss,"  Mrs.  Toft  continued, 
eyeing  the  sick  man  judicially.  "  He's  been  nigh  as  bad  as 
this  before  and  been  about  within  the  week.  There's  some 
as  when  they  wool-gathers,  there's  no  worse  sign.  But  the 
master  he's  never  all  here,  nor  all  there,  and  like  a  Brose- 
ley  butter-pot  another  touch  of  the  kiln  will  neither  make 
him  nor  break  him.  Xow,  Toft,  wide  of  the  door-post,  and 
steady,  man." 

Lord  Audley  and  Stubbs  had  remained  outside,  but  when 
they  saw  Mary  coming  towards  them,  the  young  man 
left  Stubbs  and  went  to  meet  her.  "How  is  he?"  he 
asked. 

"  Mrs.  Toft  thinks  well  of  him.  She  has  seen  him  nearly 
as  ill  before,  she  says.  But  if  he  recovers,"  Mary  con- 
tinued gratefully,  "we  owe  his  life  to  you.  Had  you  not 
found  him  he  must  have  died.  And  if  you  had  lost  a 
moment  in  bringing  the  news,  I  am  sure  that  we  should 
have  been  too  late." 

The  young  man  might  have  given  some  credit  to  Stubbs, 
but  he  did  not ;  perhaps  because  time  pressed,  perhaps  be- 
cause he  felt  that  his  virtue  in  resisting  a  certain  tempta- 
tion deserved  its  reward.  Instead  he  looked  at  Mary  with 
a  sympathy  so  ardent  that  her  eyes  fell.  "  Who  would  not 
have  done  as  much  ?  "  he  said.  "  If  not  for  him — for 

you." 

"  Will  you  add  one  kindness  then  ? "  she  answered. 
"Will  you  send  Dr.  Pepper  as  quickly  as  possible?" 

"  Without  the  loss  of  a  minute,"  he  said.  "  But  one 
thing  before  I  go.  I  cannot  come  here  to  inquire,  yet  I 
should  like  to  know  how  he  goes  on.  Will  you  walk  a  little 


TO  THE  RESCUE  165 

way  down  the  Eiddsley  road  at  noon  to-morrow,  and  tell 
me  how  he  fares  ?  " 

Mary  hesitated.  But  when  he  had  done  so  much  for 
them,  when  he  had  as  good  as  saved  her  uncle's  life,  how 
could  she  be  churlish?  How  could  she  play  the  prude?. 
"  Of  course  I  will,"  she  said  frankly.  "  I  hope  I  shall 
bring  a  good  report." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.    "  Until  to-morrow !  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MASKS   AND  FACES 

CHERBULIEZ  opens  one  of  his  stories  with  the  remark  that 
if  the  law  of  probabilities  ruled,  the  hero  and  heroine  would 
never  have  met,  seeing  that  the  one  lived  in  Venice  and  the 
other  seldom  left  Paris.  That  in  spite  of  this  they  fell  in 
with  one  another  was  enough  to  suggest  to  the  lady  that 
Destiny  was  at  work  to  unite  them. 

He  put  into  words  a  thought  which  has  entertained 
millions  of  lovers.  If  in  face  of  the  odds  of  three  hundred 
and  sixty-four  to  one  Phyllis  shares  her  birthday  with 
Corydon,  if  Frederica  sprains  her  ankle  and  the  ready  arm 
belongs  to  a  Frederic,  if  Mademoiselle  has  a  grain  de 
~beaute  on  the  right  ear,  and  Monsieur  a  plain  mole  on  the 
left — here  is  at  once  matter  for  reverie,  and  the  heart  is 
given  almost  before  the  hands  have  met. 

This  was  the  fourth  occasion  on  which  Audley  had  come 
to  Mary's  rescue,  and,  sensible  as  she  was,  she  was  too 
thoroughly  woman  to  be  proof  against  the  suggestion.  On 
three  of  the  four  occasions  the  odds  had  been  against  his 
appearance.  Yet  he  had  come.  To-day  in  particular,  as  if 
no  pain  that  threatened  her  could  be  indifferent  to  him,  as 
if  no  trouble  approached  her  but  touched  a  nerve  in  him,  he 
had  risen  from  the  very  ground  to  help  and  sustain  her. 

Could  the  coldest  decline  to  feel  interest  in  one  so 
strangely  linked  with  her  by  fortune?  Could  the  most 
prudent  in  such  a  case  abstain  from  day  dreams,  in  which 
love  and  service,  devotion  and  constancy,  played  their 
parts  ? 

Sic  itur  ad  astra!    So  men  and  women  begin  to  love. 

1 66 


MASKS  AND  FACES  167 

She  spent  the  morning  between  the  room  in  which  John 
Audley  was  making  a  slow  recovery,  and  the  deserted 
library  which  already  wore  a  cold  and  unused  aspect.  In 
the  one  and  the  other  she  felt  a  restlessness  and  a  dis- 
turbance which  she  was  fain  to  set  down  to  yesterday's 
alarm.  The  old  interests  invited  her  in  vain.  Do  what 
she  would,  she  could  not  keep  her  mind  off  the  appoint- 
ment before  her.  Her  eyes  grew  dreamy,  her  thoughts 
strayed,  her  color  came  and  went.  At  one  moment  she 
would  plunge  into  a  thousand  attentions  to  her  uncle,  at 
another  she  opened  books  only  to  close  them.  She  looked 
at  the  clock — surely  the  hands  were  not  moving!  She 
looked  again — it  could  not  be  as  late  as  that!  The  truth 
was  that  Mary  was  not  in  love,  but  she  was  ready  to  be  in 
love.  She  was  glad  and  sorry,  grave  and  gay,  without 
reason;  like  a  stream  that  dances  over  the  shallows,  and 
rippling  and  twinkling  goes  its  way  through  the  sunshine, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  deep  pool  that  awaits  it. 

Presently,  acting  upon  some  impulse,  she  opened  a 
drawer  in  one  of  the  tables.  It  contained  a  portrait  in 
crayons  of  Peter  Basset,  which  John  Audley  had  shown 
her.  She  took  out  the  sketch  and  set  it  against  a  book 
where  the  light  fell  upon  it,  and  she  examined  it.  At 
first  with  a  smile — that  he  should  have  been  so  mad  as  to 
think  what  he  had  thought !  And  then  with  a  softer  look. 
How  hard  she  had  been  to  him!  How  unfeeling!  Nay, 
how  cruel! 

She  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  at  the  portrait.  But 
in  fact  she  had  forgotten  that  it  was  before  her,  when  the 
clock,  striking  the  half-hour  before  noon,  surprised  her. 
Then  she  thrust  the  portrait  back  into  its  drawer,  and  went 
with  a  composed  face  to  put  on  her  hat. 

The  past  summer  had  been  one  of  the  wettest  ever 
known,  for  rain  had  fallen  on  five  days  out  of  seven.  But 
to-day  it  was  fine,  and  as  Mary  descended  the  road  that  led 
from  the  house  towards  Riddsley,  a  road  open  to  the  vale 


i68  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

on  one  side  and  flanked  on  the  other  by  a  rising  slope 
covered  with  brushwood,  a  watery  sun  was  shining.  Its 
rays,  aided  by  the  clearness  of  the  air,  brought  out  the 
colors  of  stubble  and  field,  flood  and  coppice,  that  lay 
below.  And  men  looking  up  from  toil  or  pleasure,  leaning 
on  spades  or  pausing  before  they  crossed  a  stile,  saw  the 
Gatehouse  transformed  to  a  fairy  lodge,  gray,  clear-cut, 
glittering,  breaking  the  line  of  forest  trees — saw  it  as  if  it 
had  stood  in  another  world. 

Mary  looked  back,  looked  forward,  admired,  descended. 
She  had  made  up  her  mind  that  Lord  Audley  would  meet 
her  at  a  turn  near  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  a  Cross  had 
once  stood,  and  where  the  crumbling  base  and  moss-clothed 
steps  still  bade  travellers  rest  and  be  thankful. 

He  was  there,  and  Mary  owned  the  attraction  of  the  big 
smiling  face  and  the  burly  figure,  that  in  a  rough,  caped 
riding-coat  still  kept  an  air  of  fashion.  He  on  his  side  saw 
coming  to  meet  him,  through  the  pale  sunshine,  not  as  yes- 
terday an  Atalanta,  but  a  cool  Dian,  with  her  hands  in  a 
large  muff. 

"  You  bring  a  good  report,  I  hope  ?  "  he  cried  before  they 
met. 

"  Very  good,"  Mary  replied,  sparkling  a  little  as  she 
looked  at  him — was  not  the  sun  shining?  "My  uncle  is 
much  better  this  morning.  Dr.  Pepper  says  that  it  was 
mainly  exertion  acting  on  a  weak  heart.  He  expects  him 
to  be  downstairs  in  a  week  and  to  be  himself  in  a  fort- 
night. But  he  will  have  to  be  more  careful  in  future." 

"  That  is  good !  " 

"He  says,  too,  that  if  you  had  not  acted  so  promptly, 
my  uncle  must  have  died/' 

"  Well,  he  was  pretty  far  gone,  I  must  say." 

"  So,  as  he  will  not  thank  you  himself,  you  must  let 
me  thank  you."  And  Mary  held  out  the  hand  she  had 
hitherto  kept  in  her  muff.  She  was  determined  not  to  be 
a  prude. 


MASKS  AND  FACES  169 

He  pressed  it  discreetly.  "  I  am  glad,"  he  said.  "  Very 
glad.  Perhaps  after  this  he  may  think  better  of  me." 

She  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  that  there  is  a  chance 
of  it,"  she  said. 

"  Xo?  Well,  I  suppose  it  was  foolish,  but  do  you  know, 
I  did  hope  that  this  might  bring  us  together." 

"  You  may  dismiss  it,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "Then  tell  me  this.  How  in  the 
world  did  he  come  to  be  there?  Without  a  hat?  Without 
a  coat?  And  so  far  from  the  house?  " 

Mary  hesitated.  He  had  turned,  they  were  walking  side 
by  side.  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  she 
said.  "  What  I  know  I  gathered  from  a  word  that  Mr. 
Audley  let  fall  when  he  was  rambling.  He  seems  to  have 
had  some  instinct,  some  feeling  that  you  were  there  and 
to  have  been  forced  to  learn  if  it  was  so." 

"But  forced?  By  what?"  Lord  Audley  asked.  "I 
don't  understand." 

"  I  don't  understand  either,"  Mary  answered. 

"He  could  not  know  that  we  were  there?" 

"  But  he  seems  to  have  known." 

"  Strange,"  he  murmured.  "  Does  he  often  stray  away 
like  that?" 

"  He  does,  sometimes,"  she  admitted  reluctantly. 

"  Ah !  "  Audley  was  silent  a  moment.  Then,  "  Well,  I 
am  glad  he  is  better,"  he  said  in  the  tone  of  one  who  dis- 
misses a  subject.  "  Let  us  talk  of  something  else — our- 
selves. Are  you  aware  that  this  is  the  fourth  time  that  I 
have  come  to  your  rescue?  " 

"  I  know  that  it  is  the  fourth  time  that  you  have  been 
very  useful,"  she  admitted.  She  wished  that  she  had  been 
able  to  control  her  color,  but  though  he  spoke  playfully 
there  was  meaning  in  his  voice. 

"  I,  too,  have  a  second  sense  it  seems,"  he  said,  almost 
purring  as  he  looked  at  her.  "  Did  you  by  any  chance 
think  of  me,  when  you  missed  your  uncle  ?  n 


i;o  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Not  for  a  moment,"  she  retorted. 

"  Perhaps — you  thought  of  Mr.  Basset?  " 

"  No,  nor  of  Mr.  Basset.  Had  he  been  at  the  Gatehouse 
I  might  have.  But  he  is  away." 

"  Away,  is  he  ?  Oh !  "  He  looked  at  her  with  a  whim- 
sical smile.  u  Do  you  know  that  when  he  met  us  the  other 
evening  I  thought  that  he  was  a  little  out  of  temper?  It 
was  not  a  continuance  of  that  which  took  him  away,  I 
suppose?" 

Mary  would  have  given  the  world  to  show  an  unmoved 
face  at  that  moment.  But  she  could  not.  Nor  could  she 
feel  as  angry  as  she  wished.  "  I  thought  we  were  going  to 
talk  of  ourselves,"  she  said. 

"  I  thought  that  we  were  talking  of  you." 

On  that,  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  be  going  back,"  she 
said.  And  she  stopped. 

"  But  I  am  going  back  with  you !  " 

"  Are  you  ?    Well,  you  may  come  as  far  as  the  Cross." 

"  Oh,  hang  the  Cross ! "  he  answered  with  a  masterful- 
ness of  which  Mary  owned  the  charm,  while  she  rebelled 
against  it.  "  I  shall  come  as  far  as  I  like !  And  hang 
Basset  too — if  he  makes  you  unhappy ! "  He  laughed. 
"We'll  talk  of— what  shall  we  talk  of,  Mary?  Why, 
we  are  cousins — does  not  that  entitle  me  to  call  you 
'Mary'?" 

"I  would  rather  you  did  not,"  she  said,  and  this  time 
there  was  no  lack  of  firmness  in  her  tone.  She  remem- 
bered what  Basset  had  said  about  her  name  and — and  for 
the  moment  the  other's  airiness  displeased  her. 

"  But  we  are  cousins." 

"  Then  you  can  call  me  cousin,"  she  answered. 

He  laughed.    "  Beaten  again ! "  he  said. 

"  And  I  can  call  you  cousin,"  she  said  sedately.  "  In- 
deed, I  am  going  to  treat  you  as  a  cousin.  I  want  you,  if 
not  to  do,  to  think  of  doing  something  for  me.  I  don't 
know,"  nervously,  "whether  I  am  asking  more  than  I 


MASKS  AND  FACES  171 

ought — if  so  you  must  forgive  me.  But  it  is  not  for  my- 
self." 

"  You  frighten  me !  "  he  said.    "  \Yhat  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  about  Mr.  Colet,  the  curate  whom  you  helped  us 
to  save  from  those  men  at  Brown  Heath.  He  has  been 
shamefully  treated.  What  they  did  to  him  might  be  for- 
given— they  knew  no  better.  But  I  hear  that  because  he 
preaches  what  is  not  to  everybody's  taste,  but  what  thou- 
sands and  thousands  are  saying,  he  is  to  lose  his  curacy. 
And  that  is  his  livelihood.  It  seems  most  wicked  to  me, 
because  I  am  told  that  no  one  else  will  employ  him.  And 
what  is  he  to  do  ?  He  has  no  friends " 

"  He  has  one  eloquent  friend." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me ! "  she  cried. 

"  I  am  not  laughing,"  he  answered.  He  was,  in  fact, 
wondering  how  he  should  deal  with  this — this  fad  of  hers. 
A  little,  too,  he  was  wondering  what  it  meant.  It  could 
not  be  that  she  was  in  love  with  Colet.  Absurd!  He 
recalled  the  look  of  the  man.  "  I  am  not  laughing,"  he 
repeated  more  slowly.  "  But  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  use  your  influence  for  him,"  Mary  explained, 
"  either  with  the  rector  to  keep  him  or  with  some  one  else 
to  employ  him." 

"  I  see." 

"  He  only  did  what  he  thought  was  his  duty.  And — and 
because  he  did  it,  is  he  to  pay  with  all  he  has  in  the 
world?" 

"It  seems  a  hard  case." 

"It  is  more,  it  is  an  abominable  injustice!"  she  cried. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly.  "  It  seems  so.  It  certainly  seems 
hard.  But  let  me — don't  be  angry  with  me  if  I  put 
another  side."  He  spoke  with  careful  moderation.  "  It  is 
my  experience  that  good,  easy  men,  such  as  I  take  the 
rector  of  Eiddsley  to  be,  rarely  do  a  thing  which  seems 
cruel,  without  reason.  A  clergyman,  for  instance;  he  has 
generally  thought  out  more  clearly  than  you  or  I  what  it 


172  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

is  right  to  say  in  the  pulpit;  how  far  it  is  lawful,  and  then 
again  how  far  it  is  wise  to  deal  with  matters  of  debate. 
He  has  considered  how  far  a  pronouncement  may  offend 
some,  and  so  may  render  his  office  less  welcome  to  them. 
That  is  one  consideration.  Probably,  too,  he  has  considered 
that  a  statement,  if  events  falsify  it,  will  injure  him  with 
his  poorer  parishioners  who  look  up  to  him  as  wiser  than 
themselves.  Well,  when  such  a  man  has  laid  down  a  rule 
and  finds  a  younger  clergyman  bent  upon  transgressing  it, 
is  it  unreasonable  if  he  puts  his  foot  down?  " 

"  I  had  not  looked  at  it  in  that  way." 

"And  that,  perhaps,  is  not  all,"  he  resumed.  "You 
know  that  a  thing  may  be  true,  but  that  it  is  not  always 
wise  to  proclaim  it.  It  may  be  too  strong  meat.  It  may 
be  true,  for  instance,  that  corn-dealers  make  -an  unfair 
profit  out  of  the  poor;  but  it  is  not  a  truth  that  you  would 
tell  a  hungry  crowd  outside  the  corn-dealer's  shop  on  a 
Saturday  night." 

"  No/'  Mary  allowed  reluctantly.    "  Perhaps  not." 

"  And  again — I  have  nothing  to  say  against  Colet.  It 
is  enough  for  me  that  he  is  a  friend  of  yours " 

"  I  have  a  reason  for  being  interested  in  him.  I  am 
sure  that  if  you  heard  him " 

"I  might  be  carried  away?  Precisely.  But  is  it  not 
possible  that  he  has  seen  much  of  one  side  of  this  question, 
much  of  the  poverty  for  which  a  cure  is  sought,  without 
being  for  that  reason  fitted  to  decide  what  the  cure  should 
be?" 

Mary  nodded.  "  Have  you  formed  any  opinion  your- 
self?" she  asked. 

But  he  was  too  prudent  to  enter  on  a  discussion.  He 
saw  that  so  far  he  had  impressed  her  with  what  he  had 
said,  and  he  was  not  going  to  risk  the  advantage  he  had 
gained.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  weighing  the  matter  at 
this  moment.  We  are  on  the  verge  of  a  crisis  on  the  Corn 
Laws,  and  it  is  my  duty  to  consider  the  question  carefully. 


MASKS  AND  FACES  173 

I  am  doing  so.  I  have  hitherto  been  a  believer  in  the 
tax.  I  may  change  my  views,  but  I  shall  not  do  so  hastily. 
As  for  your  friend,  I  will  consider  what  can  be  done,  but 
I  fear  that  he  has  been  imprudent." 

"  Sometimes,"  she  ventured,  "  imprudence  is  a  virtue." 

"  And  its  own  reward  !  "  he  retorted.  They  had  passed 
the  Cross,  they  were  by  this  time  high  on  the  hill,  with  one 
accord  they  came  to  a  stand.  "  However,  I  will  think  it 
over,"  he  continued.  "  I  will  think  it  over,  and  what  a 
cousin  may,  a  cousin  shall." 

"  A  cousin  may  much  when  he  is  Lord  Audley." 

"  A  poor  man  in  a  fine  coat !  A  butterfly  in  an  east 
wind."  He  removed  his  curly-brimmed  hat  and  stood  gaz- 
ing over  the  prospect,  over  the  wide  valley  that  far  and 
near  gleamed  with  many  a  sheet  of  flood-water.  "  Have 
you  ever  thought,  Mary,  what  that  means?"  he  continued 
with  feeling.  "  To  be  the  shadow  of  a  name !  A  ghost 
of  the  past !  To  have  for  home  a  ruin,  and  for  lands  a  few 
poor  farms — in  place  of  all  that  we  can  see  from  here! 
For  all  this  was  once  ours.  To  live  a  poor  man  among  the 
rich !  To  have  nothing  but " 

"  Opportunities  !  "  she  answered,  her  voice  betraying  how 
deeply  she  was  moved — for  she  too  was  an  Audley.  "  For, 
with  all  said  and  done,  you  start  where  others  end.  You 
have  no  need  to  wait  for  a  hearing.  Doors  stand  open  to 
you  that  others  must  open.  Your  name  is  a  passport — is 
there  a  Stafford  man  who  does  not  thrill  to  it?  Surely 
these  things  are  something.  Surely  they  are  much?" 

"  You  would  make  me  think  BO!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Believe  me,  they  are." 

"  They  would  be  if  I  had  your  enthusiasm ! "  he 
answered,  moved  by  her  words.  "  And,  by  Jove,"  gazing 
with  admiration  at  her  glowing  face,  "  if  I  had  you  by  me 
to  spur  me  on  there's  no  knowing,  Mary,  what  I  might  not 
try !  And  what  I  might  not  do !  " 

Womanlike,  she  would  evade  the  crisis  which  she  had 


174  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

provoked.  "  Or  fail  to  do !  "  she  replied.  "  Perhaps  the 
most  worthy  would  be  left  undone.  But  I  must  go  now/' 
she  continued.  "  I  have  to  give  my  uncle  his  medicine.  I 
fear  I  am  late  already." 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again  ? "  he  asked,  trying  to 
detain  her. 

"  Some  day,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  good-bye  now !  And 
don't  forget  Mr.  Colet !  Good-bye !  " 

He  stood  awhile  looking  after  her,  then  he  turned  and 
went  down  the  hill.  By  the  time  he  was  at  the  place  where 
he  had  met  her  he  was  glad  that  she  had  broken  off  the 
interview. 

"  I  might  have  said  too  much,"  he  reflected.  "  She's 
handsome  enough  to  turn  any  man's  head !  And  not  so 
cold  as  she  looks.  And  she  spells  safety.  But  there's  no 
hurry — and  she's  inclined  to  be  kind,  or  I  am  mistaken! 
That  clown,  Basset,  too,  has  got  his  dismissal,  I  fancy,  and 
there's  no  one  else !  " 

Presently  his  thoughts  took  another  turn.  "  What  mag- 
gots women  get  into  their  heads !  "  he  muttered.  "  That 
pestilent  Colet — I'm  glad  the  rector  acted  on  my  hint. 
But  there  it  is ;  when  a  woman  meddles  with  politics  she's 
game  for  the  first  spouter  she  comes  across!  Fine  eyes, 
too,  and  the  Audley  blood !  With  a  little  drilling  she  would 
hold  her  own  an}rwhere." 

Altogether,  he  found  the  walk  to  the  place  where  he  had 
left  his  carriage  pleasant  enough  and  his  thoughts  satis- 
factory. With  Mary  and  safety  on  one  side,  and  Lady 
Adela  and  a  plum  on  the  other — it  would  be  odd  if  he  did 
not  bring  his  wares  to  a  tolerable  market. 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

THE   CORN   LAW   CRISIS 

HE  had  been  right  in  his  forecast  when  he  told  Mary  that 
a  political  crisis  was  at  hand.  That  which  had  been  long 
whispered,  was  beginning  to  be  stated  openly  in  club  and 
market-place.  The  Corn  Laws,  the  support  of  the  country, 
the  mainstay,  as  so  many  thought,  of  the  Constitution,  were 
in  danger ;  and  behind  closed  doors,  while  England  listened 
without,  the  doctors  were  met  to  decide  their  fate. 

Potatoes !  The  word  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth  that 
wet  autumn,  from  town  to  country,  from  village  to  village. 
Potatoes!  The  thing  seemed  incredible.  That  the  lordly 
Corn  Laws,  the  bulwark  of  the  landed  interest,  the  prop  of 
agriculture,  that  had  withstood  all  attacks  for  two  genera- 
tions, and  maintained  themselves  alike  against  high  prices 
and  the  Corn  Law  League — that  these  should  go  down  be- 
cause a  vulgar  root  like  the  potato  had  failed  in  Ireland — 
it  was  a  thing  passing  belief.  It  couldn't  be.  With  the 
Conservatives  in  power,  it  seemed  impossible. 

Yet  it  was  certain  that  the  position  was  grave,  if  not 
hopeless.  Never  since  the  Eeform  Bill  had  there  been  such 
meetings  of  the  Cabinet,  so  frequent,  so  secret.  And 
strange  things  were  said.  Some  who  had  supported  Peel 
yet  did  not  trust  him,  maintained  that  this  was  the  natural 
sequel  of  his  measures,  the  point  to  which  he  had  been 
moving  through  all  the  years  of  his  Ministry.  Potatoes — 
bah !  Others  who  still  supported  him,  yet  did  not  trust 
him,  brooded  nervously  over  his  action  twenty  years  before, 
when  he  had  first  resisted  and  then  accepted  the  Catholic 

»75 


176  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

claims.  Tories  and  Conservatives  alike,  wondered  what 
they  were  there  to  conserve,  if  such  things  were  in  the 
wind ;  they  protested,  but  with  growing  misgiving,  that  the 
thing  could  not  be.  While  those  among  them  who  had 
seats  to  save  and  majorities  to  guard,  met  one  another  with 
gloomy  looks,  whispered  together  in  corners  and  privately 
asked  themselves  what  they  would  do — if  he  did.  Happy 
in  these  circumstances  were  those  who  like  Mottisfont,  the 
father,  were  ready  to  retire;  and  still  happier  those  who 
like  Mottisfont,  the  son,  knew  the  wishes  of  their  constitu- 
ents and  could  sing  "  John  Barleycorn,  my  Joe,  John," 
with  no  fear  of  being  jilted. 

Their  anxieties — they  were  politicians — were  mainly 
personal — and  selfish.  But  there  were  some,  simple  people 
like  Mr.  Stubbs  at  Riddsley,  who  really  believed,  when 
these  rumors  reached  them,  that  the  foundations  of  things 
were  breaking  up,  and  that  the  world  in  which  they  had 
lived  was  sinking  under  their  feet.  Already  in  fancy  they 
saw  the  glare  of  furnaces  fall  across  the  peaceful  fields. 
Already  they  heard  the  tall  mill  jar  and  quiver  where  the 
cosey  homestead  and  the  full  stackyard  sprawled.  They 
saw  a  weakly  race,  slaves  to  the  factory  bell,  overrun  the 
land  where  the  ploughman  still  whistled  at  his  work  and 
his  wife  suckled  healthy  babes.  To  these  men,  if  the 
rumors  they  heard  were  true,  if  Peel  had  indeed  sold  the 
pass,  it  meant  the  loss  of  all.  It  meant  the  victory  of  coal 
and  cotton,  the  ruling  of  all  after  the  Manchester  pattern, 
the  reign  of  Cash,  the  Lord,  and  ten  per  cent,  his  profit. 
It  meant  the  end  of  the  old  England  they  had  loved. 

Not  that  Stubbs  said  this  at  Riddsley,  or  anything  like 
it.  He  smiled  and  kept  silence,  as  became  a  man  who  knew 
much  and  was  set  above  common  rumor.  The  landlord 
of  the  Audley  Arms,  the  corndealer,  the  brewer,  the  saddler 
went  away  from  him  with  their  fears  allayed  merely  by  the 
way  in  which  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  At  the  farmers' 
ordinary  he  had  never  been  more  cheerful.  He  gave  the 


THE  CORN  LAW  CRISIS  177 

toast  of  "  Horn  and  Corn,  gentlemen !  And  when  potatoes 
take  their  place  you  may  come  and  tell  me !  "  And  he  gave 
it  so  heartily  that  the  farmers  went  home,  market-peart 
and  rejoicing,  laughed  at  their  doubting  neighbors,  and 
quoted  a  hundred  things  that  Lawyer  Stubbs  had  not 
said. 

But  a  day  or  two  later  the  lawyer  sustained  an  un- 
pleasant shock.  He  had  been  little  moved  by  Lord  John's 
manifesto — the  declaration  in  which  the  little  Whig 
Leader,  seeing  that  the  Government  hesitated,  had  plumped 
for  total  repeal.  That  was  in  the  common  course  of 
things.  It  had  heartened  him,  if  anything.  It  was  natural. 
It  would  bring  the  Tories  into  line  and  put  an  end  to 
trimming.  But  this — this  which  confronted  him  one  morn- 
ing when  he  opened  his  London  paper  was  different.  He 
read  it,  he  held  his  breath,  he  stood  aghast  a  long  minute, 
he  swore.  After  a  few  minutes  he  took  his  hat  and  the 
newspaper,  and  went  round  to  the  house  in  which  Lord 
Audley  lived  when  he  was  at  Riddsley. 

It  was  a  handsome  Georgian  house,  built  of  brick  with 
stone  facings,  and  partly  covered  with  ivy.  A  wide  smooth 
lawn  divided  it  from  the  road.  The  occupant  was  a  curate's 
widow  who  lived  there  with  her  two  sisters  and  eked  out 
their  joint  means  by  letting  the  first  floor  to  her  landlord. 
For  "  The  Butterflies "  was  Audley  property,  and  the 
clergyman's  widow  was  held  to  derogate  in  no  way  by  an 
arrangement  which  differed  widely  from  a  common  letting 
of  lodgings.  Mrs.  Jenkinson  was  stout,  short,  and  fussy, 
her  sisters  were  thin,  short,  and  precise,  but  all  three  over- 
flowed with  words  as  kindly  as  their  deeds.  Good  Mrs. 
Jenkinson,  in  fact,  who  never  spoke  of  his  lordship  behind 
his  back  but  with  distant  respect,  sometimes  forgot  in  his 
presence  that  he  was  anything  but  a  "  dear  young  man," 
and  when  he  had  a  cold,  would  prescribe  a  posset  or  a 
warming-pan  with  an  insistence  which  at  times  amused  and 
more  often  bored  him. 


1 78  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Stubbs  found  his  lordship  just  risen  from  a  late  lunch, 
and  in  his  excitement,  the  lawyer  forgot  his  manners.  "  By 
G — d,  my  lord  !  "  he  cried,  "  he's  resigned." 

Audley  looked  at  him  with  displeasure.  "  Who's  re- 
signed ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

"  Peel ! " 

Against  that  news  the  young  man  was  not  proof.  He 
caught  the  infection.  "  Impossible !  "  he  said,  rising  to  his 
feet, 

"  It's  true !  It's  in  the  Morning  Post,  my  lord !  He  saw 
the  Queen  yesterday.  She's  sending  for  Lord  John.  It's 
black  treachery !  It's  the  blackest  of  treachery !  With  a 
majority  in  the  House,  with  the  peers  in  his  pocket,  the 
country  quiet,  trade  improving,  everything  in  his  favor, 
he's  sold  us — sold  us  to  Cobden  on  some  d — d  pretext  of 
famine  in  Ireland  !  " 

Audley  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  stood  deep  in 
thought,  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  At 
length,  "  I  don't  follow  it,"  he  said.  "  How  is  Russell, 
who  is  in  a  minority,  to  carry  repeal  ?  " 

"  Peel's  promised  his  support ! "  Stubbs  cried.  Like 
most  honest  men,  he  was  nothing  if  not  thorough.  "  You 
may  depend  upon  it,  my  lord,  he  has!  He  won't  deceive 
me  again.  I  know  him  through  and  through,  now.  He'll 
take  with  him  Graham  and  Gladstone  and  Herbert,  his  old 
tail,  Radicals  at  heart  every  man  of  them,  and  he's  the 
biggest!" 

"Well,"  Audley  said  slowly,  "he  might  have  done  one 
thing  worse.  He  might  have  stayed  in  and  passed  repeal 
himself !  " 

"  Good  G — d !  "  the  lawyer  cried,  "  Judas  wouldn't  have 
done  that!  All  he  could  do,  he  has  done.  He  has  let  in 
corn  from  Canada,  cattle  from  Heaven  knows  where,  he 
has  let  in  wool.  All  that  he  has  done.  But  even  he  has  a 
limit,  my  lord  !  Even  he !  The  man  who  was  returned  to 
support  the  Corn  Laws — to  repeal  them.  Impossible !  " 


THE  CORN  LAW  CRISIS  179 

"  Well  ?  "  Audley  said.  "  There'll  be  an  election,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  The  sooner  the  better,"  Stubbs  answered  vengefully. 
"And  we  shall  see  what  the  country  thinks  of  this.  In 
Eiddsley  we've  been  ready  for  weeks — as  you  know,  my 
lord.  But  a  General  Election?  Gad!  I  only  hope  they 
will  put  up  some  one  here,  and  we  will  give  them  such  a 
beating  as  they've  never  had !  " 

Audley  pondered.    "  I  suppose  Eiddsley  is  safe,"  he  said. 

"  As  safe  as  Burton  Bridge,  my  lord !  " 

The  other  rattled  the  money  in  his  pocket.  "  As  long  as 
you  give  them  a  lead,  Stubbs,  I  suppose?  But  if  you  went 
over?  What  then?" 

Stubbs  opened  his  eyes.    "  Went  over?  "  he  ejaculated. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean,"  my  lord  said  airily,  "that  you're 
not  as  staunch  as  Burton  Bridge.  But  supposing  you  took 
the  other  side — it  would  make  a  difference,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  a  jot !  "  the  lawyer  answered  sturdily. 

"  Xot  even  if  the  two  Mottisfonts  sided  with  Peel?  " 

"If  they  did  the  old  gentleman  would  never  see  West- 
minster again,"  Stubbs  cried,  "nor  the  young  one  go 
there ! " 

"  Or,"  Audley  continued,  setting  his  shoulders  against 
the  mantel-shelf,  and  smiling,  "  suppose  I  did  ?  If  the 
Beaudelays  interest  were  cast  for  repeal?  What  then?" 

"  What  then  ?  "  Stubbs  answered.  "  You'll  pardon  me, 
my  lord,  if  I  am  frank.  Then  the  Beaudelays  influence, 
that  has  held  the  borough  time  out  of  mind,  that  returned 
two  members  before  '32,  and  has  returned  one  since — 
there'd  be  an  end  of  it !  It  would  snap  like  a  rotten  stick. 
The  truth  is  we  hold  the  borough  while  we  go  with  the 
stream.  In  fair  weather  when  it  is  a  question  of  twenty 
votes  one  way  or  the  other,  we  carry  it.  And  you've  the 
credit,  my  lord." 

Audley  moved  his  shoulders  restlessly.  "It's  all  I  get 
by  it,"  he  said.  "  If  I  could  turn  the  credit  into  a  snug 


180  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

place  of  two  thousand  a  year,  Stubbs — it  would  be  another 
thing.  Do  you  know,"  he  continued,  "  I've  often  wondered 
why  you  feel  so  strongly  on  the  corn-taxes  ?  " 

"You  asked  me  that  once  before,  my  lord,"  the  agent 
answered  slowly.  "  All  that  I  can  say  is  that  more  things 
than  one  go  to  it.  Perhaps  the  best  answer  I  can  make  is 
that,  like  your  lordship's  influence  in  the  borough,  it's  part 
sentiment  and  part  tradition.  I  have  a  picture  in  my  mind 
— it's  a  picture  of  an  old  homestead  that  my  grandfather 
lived  in  and  died  in,  and  that  I  visited  when  I  was  a  boy. 
That  would  be  about  the  middle  nineties;  the  French  war 
going,  corn  high,  cattle  high,  a  good  horse  in  the  gig  and 
old  ale  for  all  comers.  There  was  comfort  inside  and 
plenty  without ;  comfort  in  the  great  kitchen,  with  its  floor 
as  clean  as  a  pink,  and  greened  in  squares  with  bay  leaves, 
its  dresser  bright  with  pewter,  its  mantel  with  Toby  jugs! 
There  was  wealth  in  the  stackyard,  with  the  poultry  strut- 
ting and  scratching,  and  more  in  the  byres  knee-deep  in 
straw,  and  the  big  barn  where  they  flailed  the  wheat!  And 
there  were  men  and  maids  more  than  on  two  farms  to-day, 
some  in  the  house,  some  in  thatched  cottages  with  a  run  on 
the  common  and  wood  for  the  getting.  I  remember,  as  if 
they  were  yesterday,  hot  summer  afternoons  when  there'd 
be  a  stillness  on  the  farm  and  all  drowsed  together,  the 
bees,  and  the  calves,  and  the  old  sheep-dog,  and  the  only 
sounds  that  broke  the  silence  were  the  cluck  of  a  hen,  or 
the  clank  of  pattens  on  the  dairy-floor,  while  the  sun  fell 
hot  on  the  orchard,  where  a  little  boy  hunted  for  damsons ! 
That's  what  I  often  see,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  continued  stoutly. 
"  And  may  Peel  protect  me,  if  I  ever  raise  a  finger  to  set 
mill  and  furnace,  devil's  dust  and  slave-grown  cotton,  in 
place  of  that !  " 

My  lord  concealed  a  yawn.  "Very  interesting,  Stubbs," 
he  said.  "  Quite  a  picture !  Peace  and  plenty  and  old 
ale !  And  little  Jack  Homer  sitting  in  a  corner !  No,  don't 
go  yet,  man.  I  want  you."  He  made  a  sign  to  Stubbs  to 


THE  CORN  LAW  CRISIS  181 

sit  down,  and  settling  his  shoulders  more  firmly  against  the 
mantel-shelf,  he  thrust  his  hands  deeper  into  his  trouser- 
pockets.  "  I'm  not  easy  in  my  mind  about  John  Audley," 
he  said.  "  I'm  not  sure  that  he  has  not  found  something." 

Stubbs  stared.  "  There's  nothing  to  find,"  he  said. 
"  Nothing,  my  lord !  You  may  be  sure  of  it." 

"  He  goes  there." 

"  It's  a  craze." 

"  It's  a  confoundedly  unpleasant  one !  " 

"  But  harmless,  my  lord.    Really  harmless." 

The  younger  man's  impatience  darkened  his  face,  but  he 
controlled  it — a  sure  sign  that  he  was  in  earnest.  "  Tell 
me  this,"  he  said.  "  What  evidence  would  upset  us  ?  You 
told  me  once  that  the  claim  could  be  reopened  on  fresh 
evidence.  On  what  evidence?  " 

"  I  regard  the  case  as  closed,"  Stubbs  answered  stub- 
bornly. "But  if  you  put  the  question — "  he  seemed  to 
reflect — "  the  point  at  issue,  on  which  the  whole  turned, 
was  the  legitimacy  of  your  great-grandfather,  my  lord, 
Peter  Paravicini  Audley's  son.  Mr.  John's  great  grand- 
father was  Peter  Paravicini's  younger  brother.  The  other 
side  alleged,  but  could  not  produce,  a  family  agreement  ad- 
mitting that  the  son  was  illegitimate.  Such  an  agreement, 
if  Peter  Paravicini  was  a  party  to  it,  if  it  was  proved,  and 
came  from  the  proper  custody,  would  be  an  awkward  docu- 
ment and  might  let  in  the  next  brother's  descendants — 
that's  Mr.  John.  But  in  my  opinion,  its  existence  is  a  fairy 
story,  and  in  its  absence,  the  entry  in  the  register  stands 
good." 

"  But  such  a  document  would  be  fatal  ?  " 

"  If  it  fulfilled  the  conditions  it  would  be  serious,"  the 
lawyer  admitted.  "  But  it  does  not  exist,"  he  added  confi- 
dently. 

"  And  yet — I'm  not  comfortable,  Stubbs,"  Audley  re- 
joined. "  I  can't  get  John  Audley's  face  out  of  my  mind. 
If  ever  man  looked  as  if  he  had  his  enemy  by  the  throat, 


182  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

he  looked  it;  a  d — d  disinheriting  face  I  thought  it!  I 
don't  mind  telling  you,"  the  speaker  continued,  some  dis- 
order in  his  own  looks,  "  that  I  awoke  at  three  o'clock  this 
morning,  and  I  saw  him  as  clearly  as  I  see  you  now,  and 
at  that  moment  I  wouldn't  have  given  a  thousand  pounds 
for  my  chance  of  being  Lord  Audley  this  time  two  years !  " 

"  Liver !  "  said  Stubbs,  unmoved.  "  Liver,  my  lord,  ask- 
ing your  pardon!  Nothing  else — and  the  small  hours. 
I've  felt  like  that  myself.  Still,  if  you  are  really  uneasy 
there  is  always  a  way  out,  though  it  may  be  impertinent  of 
me  to  mention  it." 

"The  old  way?" 

"  You  might  marry  Miss  Audley.  A  handsome  young 
lady,  if  I  may  presume  to  say  so,  of  your  own  blood  and 
name,  and  no  disparagement  except  in  fortune.  After  Mr. 
John,  she  is  the  next  heir,  and  the  match  once  made  would 
checkmate  any  action  on  his  part." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  could  not  afford  such  a  marriage," 
Audley  said  coldly.  "  But  I  am  to  you.  As  for  this 
news — "  he  flicked  the  newspaper  that  lay  on  the  table — "  it 
may  be  true  or  it  may  not.  If  it  is  true,  it  will  alter  many 
things.  We  shall  see.  If  you  hear  anything  fresh  let  me 
know." 

Stubbs  said  that  he  would  and  took  his  leave,  wondering 
a  little,  but  having  weightier  things  on  his  mind.  He 
sought  his  home  by  back  ways,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  meet 
Dr.  Pepper  or  Bagenal  the  brewer,  or  even  the  saddler, 
until  he  had  considered  what  face  he  would  put  on  Peel's, 
latest  move.  He  felt  that  his  reputation  for  knowledge  and 
sagacity  was  at  stake. 

Meanwhile  his  employer,  left  alone,  fell  to  considering, 
not  what  face  he  should  put  upon  the  matter,  but  how  he 
might  at  this  crisis  turn  the  matter  and  the  borough  to  the 
best  account.  Certainly  Stubbs  was  discouraging,  but 
Stubbs  was  a  fool.  It  was  all  very  well  for  him;  he  drew 
his  wages  either  way.  But  a  man  of  the  world  did  not 


THE  CORN  LAW  CRISIS  183 

cling  to  the  credit  of  owning  a  borough  for  the  mere  name 
of  the  thing.  If  he  were  sensible  he  looked  to  get  some- 
thing more  from  it  than  that.  And  it  was  upon  occasions 
such  as  this  that  the  something  more  was  to  be  had  by 
those  who  knew  how  to  go  about  the  business. 
Here,  in  fact,  was  the  moment,  if  he  was  the  man. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PETER'S  RETURN 

NOT  a  word  or  hint  of  John  Audley's  illness  had  come  to 
Basset's  ears.  At  the  time  of  the  alarm  he  had  been  in 
London,  and  it  was  not  until  some  days  later  that  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  morning  train  to  return  to  Stafford.  On 
his  way  to  town,  and  for  some  days  after  his  arrival,  he  had 
been  buoyed  up  by  plans,  nebulous  indeed,  but  sufficient. 
He  came  back  low  in  his  mind  and  in  poor  spirits.  The 
hopes,  if  not  the  aspirations,  which  Colet's  enthusiasm  had 
generated  in  him  had  died  down,  and  the  visit  to  Francis 
Place  had  done  nothing  to  revive  them. 

Some  greatness  in  the  man,  a  largeness  of  ideas,  an  echo 
of  the  revolutionary  days  when  the  sanest  saw  visions, 
Basset  was  forced  to  own.  But  the  two  stood  too  far  apart, 
the  inspired  tailor  and  the  country  squire,  for  sympathy. 
They  were  divided  by  too  wide  a  gulf  of  breeding  and 
prejudice  to  come  together.  Basset  was  not  even  a  Radi- 
cal,  and  his  desire  to  improve  things,  and  to  better  the 
world,  fell  very  far  short  of  the  passion  of  humanity  which 
possessed  the  aged  Republican — the  man  who  for  half  a 
century  had  been  so  forward  in  all  their  movements  that 
his  fellows  had  christened  him  the  "  Old  Postilion." 

Nothing  but  disappointment,  therefore,  had  come  of  the 
meeting.  The  two  had  parted  with  a  little  contempt  on  the 
one  side,  a  sense  of  failure  on  the  other.  If  a  man  could 
serve  his  neighbor?  only  in  fellowship  with  such,  if  the 
cause  which  for  a  few  hours  had  promised  to  fill  the  void 
left  by  an  unhappy  love,  could  be  supported  only  by  men 
who  held  such  opinions,  then  Basset  felt  that  the  thing 

184 


PETER'S  RETURN  185 

was  not  for  him.  For  six  or  seven  days  he  went  up  and 
down  London  at  odds  with  himself  and  his  kind,  and  ever 
striving  to  solve  a  puzzle,  the  answer  to  which  evaded  him. 
Was  the  hope  that  he  might  find  a  mission  and  found  a 
purpose  on  Colet's  lines,  was  it  just  the  desire  to  set  the 
world  right  that  seized  on  young  men  fresh  from  college? 
And  if  this  were  so,  if  this  were  all,  what  was  he  to  do? 
Whither  was  he  to  turn?  How  was  he  going  to  piece  to- 
gether the  life  which  Mary  had  broken?  How  was  he  going 
to  arrange  his  future  so  that  some  thread  of  purpose  might 
run  through  it,  so  that  something  of  effort  might  still  link 
together  the  long  bede-roll  of  years? 

He  found  no  answer  to  the  riddle.  And  it  was  in  a 
gloomy,  unsettled  mood,  ill-content  with  himself  and  the 
world,  that  he  took  his  seat  in  the  train.  Alas,  he  could  not 
refrain  from  recalling  the  May  morning  on  which  he  had 
taken  his  seat  in  the  same  train  with  Mary.  How  ill  had 
he  then  appreciated  her  company,  how  little  had  he  under- 
stood, how  little  had  he  prized  his  good  fortune!  He  who 
was  then  free  to  listen  to  her  voice,  to  meet  her  eyes,  to 
follow  the  changes  of  her  mood  from  grave  to  gay !  To  be 
to  her — all  that  he  could !  And  that  for  hours,  for  days, 
for  weeks ! 

He  swore  under  his  breath  and  sat  back  in  the  shadow 
of  the  corner.  And  a  man  who  entered  late,  and  saw  that 
he  kept  his  eyes  shut,  fancied  that  he  was  ill ;  and  when  he 
muttered  a  word  under  his  breath,  asked  him  if  he  spoke. 

"  No/'  Basset  replied  rather  curtly.  And  that  he  might 
be  alone  with  his  thoughts  he  took  up  a  newspaper  and  held 
it  before  him.  But  not  a  word  did  he  read.  After  a  long 
interval  he  looked  over  the  journal  and  met  the  other's 
eyes. 

"  Surprising  news  this,"  the  stranger  said.  He  had  the 
look  of  a  soldier,  and  the  bronzed  face  of  one  who  had  lived 
under  warm  skies. 

Basset  murmured  that  it  was. 


186  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  The  Whigs  have  a  fine  opportunity,"  the  other  pursued. 
"  But  I  am  not  sure  that  they  will  use  it." 

"  You  are  a  Whig,  perhaps  ?  " 

The  stranger  smiled.  "  No,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  not. 
I  have  lived  so  long  abroad  that  I  belong  to  no  party.  I 
am  an  Englishman." 

"  Ah  ?  "  Basset  rejoined,  curiosity  beginning  to  stir  in 
him.  "  That's  rather  a  fine  idea." 

"  Apparently  it's  a  novel  one.  But  it  seems  natural  to 
me.  I  have  lived  for  fifteen  years  in  India  and  I  have  lost 
touch  with  the  cant  of  parties.  Out  there,  we  do  honestly 
try  to  rule  for  the  good  of  the  people;  their  prosperity  is 
our  interest.  Here,  during  the  few  weeks  I  have  spent  in 
England  I  see  things  done,  not  because  they  are  good,  but 
because  they  suit  a  party,  or  provide  a  cry,  or  put  the  other 
side  in  a  quandary." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  of  that,  I  suppose." 

"  Still,"  the  stranger  continued,  "  I  know  a  great  man, 
and  I  know  a  fine  thing  when  I  see  them.  And  I  fancy 
that  I  see  them  here !  "  He  tapped  his  paper. 

"Has  Lord  John  formed  his  ministry,  then?" 

"  No,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  will.  I  am  not  thinking  of 
him,  I  am  thinking  of  Peel." 

"Oh!    Of  Peel?" 

"  He  has  done  a  fine  thing !  As  every  man  does  who  puts 
what  is  right  before  what  is  easy.  May  I  tell  you  a  story 
of  myself  ?  "  the  Indian  continued.  "  Some  years  ago  in 
the  Afghan  war  I  was  unlucky  enough  to  command  a  small 
frontier  post.  My  garrison  consisted  of  two  companies  and 
six  or  seven  European  officers.  The  day  came  when  I  had 
to  choose  between  two  courses.  I  must  either  hold  my 
ground  until  our  people  advanced,  or  I  must  evacuate  the 
post,  which  had  a  certain  importance — and  fall  back  into 
safety.  The  men  never  dreamed  of  retiring.  The  officers 
were  confident  that  we  could  hold  out.  But  we  were  barely 
supplied  for  forty  days,  and  in  my  judgment  no  reinforce- 


PETER'S  RETURN  187 

ment  was  possible  under  seventy.  I  made  my  choice, 
breached  the  place,  and  retired.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  that 
the  days  of  that  retreat,  with  sullen  faces  about  me,  and 
hardly  a  man  in  my  company  who  did  not  think  me  a 
poltroon,  were  the  bitterest  of  my  life.  I  knew  that  if  the 
big-wigs  agreed  with  them  I  was  a  ruined  man,  and  after 
ten  years  service  I  should  go  home  disgraced.  Fortunately 
the  General  saw  it  as  I  saw  it,  and  all  was  well.  But — " 
he  looked  at  Basset  with  a  wry  smile — "  it  was  a  march  of 
ten  days  to  the  base,  and  to-day  the  sullen  looks  of  those 
men  come  back  to  me  in  my  dreams." 

"  And  you  think,"  Basset  said — the  other's"  story  had 
won  his  respect — "  that  Peel  has  found  himself  in  such  a 
position  ?  " 

"To  compare  great  issues  with  small,  I  do.  I  suspect 
that  he  has  gone  through  an  agony — that  is  hardly  too 
strong  a  word — such  as  I  went  through.  My  impression  is 
that  when  he  came  into  office  he  was  in  advance  of  his 
party.  He  saw  that  the  distress  in  the  country  called  for 
measures  which  his  followers  would  accept  from  no  one 
else.  He  believed  that  he  could  carry  them  with  him. 
Perhaps,  even  then,  he  held  a  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws  pos- 
sible in  some  remote  future;  perhaps  he  did  not,  I  don't 
know.  For  suddenly  there  came  on  him  the  fear  of  this 
Irish  famine — and  forced  his  hand." 

"  But  don't  you  think,"  Basset  asked,  "  that  the  alarm 
is  premature?"  A  dozen  times  he  had  heard  the  famine 
called  a  flam,  a  sham,  a  bite,  anything  but  a  reality. 

"You  have  never  seen  a  famine?"  the  other  replied 
gravely.  "  You  have  never  had  to  face  the  impossibility  of 
creating  food  where  it  does  not  exist,  or  of  bringing  it  from 
a  distance  when  there  are  no  roads.  I  have  had  that 
experience.  I  have  seen  people  die  of  starvation  by  hun- 
dreds, women,  children,  babes,  when  I  could  do  nothing 
because  steps  had  not  been  taken  in  time.  God  forbid  that 
that  should  happen  in  Ireland !  If  the  fear  does  not  out- 


i88  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

run  the  dearth,  God  help  the  poor!  Now  I  am  told  that 
Peel  witnessed  a  famine  in  Ireland  about  '17  or  '18,  and 
knows  what  it  is." 

"  You  have  had  interesting  experiences  ?  " 

"  The  experience  of  every  Indian  officer.  But  the  burden 
which  rests  on  us  makes  us  alive  to  the  difficulties  of  a 
statesman's  position.  I  see  Peel  forced — forced  suddenly, 
perhaps,  to  make  a  choice;  to  decide  whether  he  shall  do 
what  is  right  or  what  is  consistent.  He  must  betray  his 
friends,  or  he  must  betray  his  country.  And  the  agony  of 
the  decision  is  the  greater  if  he  has  it  burnt  in  on  his 
memory  that  he  did  this  thing  once  before,  that  once  before 
he  turned  his  back  on  his  party — and  that  all  the  world 
knows ! " 

"  I  see." 

"  If  a  man  in  that  position  puts  self,  consistency,  repu- 
tation all  behind  him — believe  me,  he  is  doing  a  fine  thing." 

Basset  assented.  "But  you  speak,"  he  added,  "as  if  Sir 
Eobert  were  going  to  do  the  thing  himself — instead  of 
merely  standing  aside  for  others  to  do  it." 

"  A  distinction  without  much  difference,"  the  other  re- 
joined. "  Possibly  it  will  turn  out  that  he  is  the  only  man 
who  can  do  it.  If  so,  he  will  have  a  hard  row  to  hoe.  He 
•will  need  the  help  of  every  moderate  man  in  the  country, 
if  he  is  not  to  be  beaten.  For  whether  he  succeeds  or  fails, 
depends  not  upon  the  fanatics,  but  upon  the  moderate  men. 
I  don't  know  what  your  opinions  are  ?  " 

"Well,"  Basset  said  frankly,  "I  am  not  much  of  a 
party-man  myself.  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  you,  so 
far." 

"  Then  if  you  have  any  influence,  use  it.  Unfortunately, 
I  am  out  of  it  for  family  reasons." 

Basset  looked  at  the  stranger.  "You  are  not  by  any 
chance  Colonel  Mottisfont  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  am.  You  know  my  brother  ?  He  is  member  for 
Kiddsley." 


PETER'S  RETURN  189 

"Yes.    My  name  is  Basset." 

"  Of  Blore  ?  Indeed.  I  knew  your  father.  Well,  I  have 
not  cast  my  seed  on  stony  ground.  Though  you  are  stony 
enough  about  Wootton  under  Weaver." 

"  True,  worse  luck.    Your  brother  is  retiring,  I  hear?  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  just  horse  sense,  has  Jack.  He  won't  vote 
against  Peel.  His  lad  has  less  and  will  take  his  place  and 
vote  old  Tory.  But  there,  I  mustn't  abuse  the  family." 

They  had  still  half  an  hour  to  spend  together  before 
Basset  got  out  at  Stafford.  He  had  time  to  discover  that 
the  soldier  was  faced  by  a  problem  not  unlike  his  own. 
His  service  over,  he  had  to  consider  what  he  would  do. 
"  All  I  know,"  the  Colonel  said  breezily,  "  is  that  I  won't 
do  nothing.  Some  take  to  preaching,  others  to  Bath,  but 
neither  will  suit  me.  But  I'll  not  drift.  I  kept  from 
brandy  pawnee  out  there,  and  I  am  going  to  keep  from 
drift  here.  For  you,  you're  a  young  man,  Basset,  and  a 
hundred  things  are  open  to  you.  I  am  over  the  top  of  the 
hill.  But  I'll  do  something." 

"  You  have  done  something  to-day,"  Basset  said.  "  You 
have  done  me  good." 

Later  he  had  time  to  think  it  over  during  the  long  jour- 
ney from  Stafford  to  Blore.  He  drove  by  twisting  country 
roads,  under  the  gray  walls  of  Chartley,  by  Uttoxeter  and 
Rocester.  Thence  he  toiled  uphill  to  the  sterile  Derbyshire 
(border,  the  retreat  of  old  families  and  old  houses.  He 
began  to  think  that  he  had  gained  some  ideas  with  which 
he  could  sympathize,  ideas  which  were  at  one  with  Mary 
Audley's  burning  desire  to  help,  while  they  did  not  clash 
with  old  prejudices.  If 'he  threw  himself  into  Peel's  cause, 
he  would  indeed  be  seen  askance  by  many.  He  would  have 
to  put  himself  forward  after  a  fashion  that  gave  him  the 
goose-flesh  when  he  thought  of  it.  A  landowner,  he  would 
have  to  go  against  the  land.  But  he  would  not  feel,  in  his 
darker  moods,  that  he  was  the  dupe  of  cranks  and  fanatics. 
He  saw  Peel  as  Mottisfont  had  pictured  him,  as  a  man 


igo  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

putting  all  behind  him  except  the  right;  and  his  heart 
warmed  to  the  picture.  Many  would  fall  away,  few  would 
be  staunch.  From  this  ship,  as  from  every  sinking  ship, 
the  rats  would  flee.  But  so  much  the  stronger  was  the 
call. 

The  result  was  that  the  Peter  Basset  who  descended  at 
the  porch  of  the  old  gabled  house,  that  sat  low  and  faced 
east  in  the  valley  under  Weaver,  was  a  more  hopeful  man 
than  he  who  had  entered  the  train  at  Euston.  A  purpose, 
a  plan — he  had  gained  these,  and  the  hope  that  springs 
from  them. 

He  had  barely  doffed  his  driving-coat,  however,  before  his 
thoughts  were  swept  in  another  direction.  On  the  hall 
table  lay  two  letters.  He  took  up  one.  It  was  from  Colet 
and  written  in  deep  dejection.  "  The  barber  was  a  Tory 
and  had  given  him  short  notice.  Feeling  ran  high  in  the 
town,  and  other  lodgings  were  not  to  be  had.  The  Bishop 
had  supported  the  rector's  action,  and  he  saw  no  immediate 
prospect  of  further  work/'  He  did  not  ask  for  shelter,  but 
it  was  plain  that  he  was  at  his  wit's  end,  and  more  than  a 
little  surprised  by  the  storm  which  he  had  raised. 

Basset  threw  down  the  letter.  "He  shall  come  here," 
he  thought.  "  What  is  it  to  me  whom  he  marries  ? " 
Many  solitary  hours  spent  in  the  streets  of  London  had 
gone  some  way  towards  widening  Peter's  outlook. 

He  took  up  the  second  letter.  It  was  from  John  Audley, 
and  before  he  had  read  three  lines,  he  rang  the  bell  and 
ordered  that  the  post-chaise  which  had  brought  him  from 
Stafford  should  be  kept :  he  would  want  it  in  the  morning. 
John  Audley  wrote  that  he  had  been  very  ill — he  was  still 
in  bed.  He  must  see  Basset.  The  matter  was  urgent,  he 
had  something  to  tell  him.  He  hinted  that  if  he  did  not 
come  quickly  it  might  be  too  late. 

Basset  could  not  refuse  to  go;  summoned  after  this 
fashion,  he  must  go.  But  he  tried  to  believe  that  he  was 
not  glad  to  go.  He  tried  to  believe  that  the  excitement  with 


PETER'S  RETURN  191 

which  he  looked  forward  to  the  journey  had  to  do  with 
his  uncle.  It  was  in  vain;  he  knew  that  he  tricked  him- 
self. Or  if  he  did  not  know  this  then,  his  eyes  were 
opened  next  day,  when,  after  walking  up  the  hill  to  spare 
the  horses — and  a  little  because  he  shrank  at  the  last  from 
the  meeting — he  came  in  sight  of  the  Gatehouse,  and  saw 
Mary  Audley  standing  in  the  doorway.  The  longing  that 
gripped  him  then,  the  emotion  that  unmanned  him,  told 
him  all.  It  was  of  Mary  he  had  been  thinking,  towards 
Mary  he  had  been  travelling,  of  her  work  it  was  that  the 
miles  had  seemed  leagues !  He  was  not  cured.  He  was  not 
in  the  way  to  be  cured.  He  was  the  same  love-sick  fool 
whom  she  had  driven  from  her  with  contumely  an  age — 
it  seemed  an  age,  ago. 

He  bent  his  head  as  he  approached,  that  she  might  not 
see  his  face.  His  knees  shook  and  a  tremor  ran  through 
him.  Why  had  he  come  back  ?  Why  had  he  come  back  to 
face  this  anguish  ? 

Then  he  mastered  himself;  indeed  he  took  himself  the 
more  strongly  in  hand  for  the  knowledge  he  had  gained. 
When  they  met  at  the  door  it  was  Mary,  not  he,  whose 
color  came  and  went,  who  spoke  awkwardly,  and  rushed 
into  needless  explanations.  The  man  listened  with  a  stony 
face,  and  said  little,  almost  nothing. 

After  the  first  awkward  greeting,  "  Your  room  has  been 
airing,"  she  continued,  avoiding  his  eyes.  "  My  uncle  has 
been  expecting  you  for  some  days.  He  has  asked  for  you 
again  and  again." 

He  explained  that  he  had  been  in  London — hence  the 
delay;  and,  further,  that  he  must  return  to  Blore  that  day. 
She  felt  that  she  was  the  cause  of  this,  and  she  colored 
painfully.  But  he  seemed  to  be  indifferent.  He  noticed  a 
trifling  change  in  the  hall,  asked  a  question  or  two  about 
his  uncle's  state,  and  inquired  what  had  caused  his  sudden 
illness. 

She  told  the  story,  giving  details.    He  nodded.    "  Yes, 


192  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

I  have  seen  him  in  a  similar  attack,"  he  said.  "But  he 
gets  older.  I  am  afraid  it  alarmed  you  ?  " 

She  forced  herself  to  describe  Lord  Audley's  part  in  the 
matter — and  Mr.  Stubbs's,  and  was  conscious  that  she  was 
dragging  in  Mr.  Stubbs  more  often  than  was  necessary. 
Basset  listened  politely,  remarked  that  it  was  fortunate  that 
Audley  had  been  on  the  spot,  added  that  he  was  sure  that 
everything  had  been  done  that  was  right. 

When  he  had  gone  upstairs  to  see  John  Audley  she 
escaped  to  her  room.  Her  cheeks  were  burning,  and  she 
could  have  cried.  Basset's  coldness,  his  distance,  the  com- 
plete change  in  his  manner  all  hurt  her  more  than  she  could 
say.  They  brought  home  to  her,  painfully  home  to  her 
what  she  had  done.  She  had  been  foolish  enough  to  fling 
away  the  friend,  when  she  need  only  have  discarded  the 
lover ! 

But  she  must  face  it  out  now,  the  thing  was  done,  and  she 
must  put  up  with  it.  And  by  and  by,  fearing  that  Basset 
might  suppose  that  she  avoided  him,  she  came  down  and 
waited  for  him  in  the  deserted  library.  She  had  waited 
some  minutes,  moving  restlessly  to  and  fro  and  wishing  the 
ordeal  of  luncheon  were  over,  when  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
door  of  the  staircase  that  led  up  to  her  uncle's  room.  It 
was  ajar. 

She  stared  at  it,  for  she  knew  that  she  had  closed  it 
after  Basset  had  gone  up.  Now  it  was  ajar.  She  reflected. 
The  house  was  still,  she  could  hear  no  one  moving.  She 
went  out  quickly,  crossed  the  hall,  looked  into  the  dining- 
room.  Toft  was  not  there,  nor  was  he  in  the  pantry.  She 
returned  to  the  library,  and  went  softly  up  the  stairs. 

So  softly  that  she  surprised  the  man  before  he  could 
raise  his  head  from  the  keyhole.  He  saw  that  he  was  de- 
tected, and  for  an  instant  he  scowled  at  her  in  the  half- 
light  of  the  narrow  passage,  uncertain  what  to  do.  Mary 
beckoned  to  him,  and  went  down  before  him  to  the  library. 

There  she  turned  on  him.    "  Shut  the  door,"  she  said. 


PETER'S  RETURN  193 

"You  were  listening!  Don't  deny  it.  You  have  acted 
disgracefully,  and  it  will  be  my  duty  to  tell  Mr.  Audley 
what  has  happened." 

The  man,  sallow  with  fear,  tried  to  brave  it  out. 

"  You  will  only  make  mischief,  Miss,"  he  said  sullenly. 
"You'll  come  near  to  killing  the  master." 

"  Very  good ! "  Mary  said,  quivering  with  indignation. 
"Then  instead  of  telling  Mr.  Audley  I  shall  tell  Mr. 
Basset.  It  will  be  for  him  to  decide  whether  Mr.  Audley 
shall  know.  Go  now." 

But  Toft  held  his  ground.  "  You'll  be  doing  a  bad  day's 
work,  Miss,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  I  want  to  run  straight." 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  which  was  wet  with 
perspiration.  "  I  swear  I  do !  I  want  to  run  straight." 

"  Straight!  "  Mary  cried  in  scorn.  "  And  you  listen  at 
doors ! " 

The  man  made  a  last  attempt  to  soften  her.  "  For  God's 
sake,  be  warned,  Miss !  "  he  cried.  "  Don't  drive  me.  If 
you  knew  as  much  as  I  do " 

"  I  should  not  listen  to  learn  the  rest ! "  replied  Mary 
without  pity.  "  That  is  enough.  Please  to  see  that  lunch 
is  ready."  She  pointed  to  the  door.  She  was  not  an 
Audley  for  nothing. 

Toft  gave  way  and  went,  and  she  remained  alone,  per- 
plexed as  well  as  angry.  Mrs.  Toft  and  Etruria  were  good 
simple  folk;  she  liked  them.  But  Toft  had  puzzled  her 
from  the  first.  He  was  so  silent,  so  secretive,  he  was  for 
ever  appearing  without  warning  and  vanishing  without 
noise.  She  had  often  suspected  that  he  spied  on  his 
master. 

But  she  had  never  caught  him  in  the  act,  and  the  cer- 
tainty that  he  did  so,  filled  her  with  dismay.  It  was 
fortunate,  she  thought,  that  Basset  was  there,  and  that  she 
could  consult  him.  And  the  instant  that  he  appeared, 
forgetting  their  quarrel  and  the  strained  relations  between 
them,  she  poured  out  her  story.  Toft  was  ungrateful, 


194  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

treacherous,  a  danger!  With  Mr.  Audley  so  helpless,  the 
house  so  lonely,  it  frightened  her. 

It  was  only  when  she  had  run  on  for  some  time  that 
Basset's  air  of  detachment  struck  her.  He  listened,  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  floor,  but  he 
did  not  speak  until  she  had  told  her  story,  and  expressed 
her  misgivings. 

When  he  did,  "  I  am  not  surprised,"  he  said.  "  I've 
suspected  this  for  some  time.  But  I  don't  know  that  any- 
thing can  be  done." 

"Do  you  mean  that — you  would  do  nothing?  " 

"  The  truth  is,"  he  answered,  "  Toft  is  pretty  far  in  his 
master's  confidence.  And  what  he  does  not  know  he  wishes 
to  know.  When  he  knows  it,  he  will  find  it  a  mare's  nest. 
The  truth — as  I  see  it  at  any  rate — is  that  your  uncle  is 
possessed  by  a  craze.  He  wants  me  to  help  him  in  it.  I 
cannot.  I  have  told  him  so,  firmly  and  finally,  to-day. 
Well,  I  suspect  that  he  will  now  turn  to  Toft.  I  hope  not, 
but  he  may,  and  if  we  report  the  man's  misconduct,  it  will 
only  precipitate  matters  and  hasten  an  understanding. 
That  is  the  position,  and  if  I  were  you,  I  should  let  the 
matter  rest." 

"  You  mean  that  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"I  do." 

"  But — but  I  have  spoken  to  Toft !  "  Her  eyes  were 
bright  with  anger. 

He  kept  his  on  the  floor.  It  was  only  by  maintaining  the 
distance  between  them  that  he  could  hope  to  hide  what  he 
felt.  "  Still  I  would  let  him  be,"  he  repeated.  "  I  do  not 
thing  that  Toft  is  dangerous.  He  has  surprised  one  half  of 
a  secret,  and  he  wishes  to  learn  the  other  half.  That  is 
all." 

"  And  I  am  to  take  no  notice  ?  " 

"  I  believe  that  will  be  your  wisest  course." 

She  was  shocked,  and  she  was  still  more  hurt.  He 
pushed  her  aside,  he  pushed  her  out  of  his  confidence,  out 


PETER'S  RETURN  195 

of  her  uncle's  confidence!  His  manner,  his  indifference, 
his  stolidity  showed  that  she  had  not  only  killed  his  fancy 
for  her  at  a  stroke,  but  that  he  now  disliked  her. 

And  still  she  protested.  "  But  I  must  tell  my  uncle !  " 
she  cried. 

"  I  think  I  would  not,"  he  repeated.  "  But  there — "  he 
paused  and  looked  at  his  watch — "  I  am  afraid  that  if  you 
are  going  to  give  me  lunch  I  must  sit  down.  I've  a  long 
journey  before  me." 

Then  she  saw  that  no  more  could  be  said,  and  with  an 
effort  she  repressed  her  feelings.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was 
forgetting.  You  must  be  hungry." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  dining-room,  and  sat  down  with 
him,  Toft  waiting  on  them  with  the  impassive  ease  of  the 
trained  man.  While  they  ate,  Basset  talked  of  indifferent 
things,  of  his  journey  from  town,  of  the  roads,  of  London, 
of  Colonel  Mottisfont — an  interesting  man  whom  he  had 
met  in  the  train.  And  as  he  talked,  and  she  made  lifeless 
answers,  her  indignation  cooled,  and  her  heart  sank. 

She  could  have  cried,  indeed.  She  had  lost  her  friend. 
He  was  gone  to  an  immense  distance.  He  was  willing  to 
leave  her  to  deal  with  her  troubles  and  difficulties,  it  might 
be,  with  her  dangers.  In  killing  his  love  with  cruel  words 
— and  how  often  had  she  repented,  not  of  the  thing,  but 
of  the  manner ! — she  had  killed  every  feeling,  every  liking, 
that  he  had  entertained  for  her. 

It  was  clear  that  this  was  so,  for  to  the  last  he  main- 
tained his  coldness  and  indifference.  When  he  was  gone, 
when  the  sound  of  the  chaise-wheels  had  died  in  the  dis- 
tance, she  felt  more  lonely  than  she  had  ever  felt  in  her 
life.  In  her  Paris  days  she  had  had  no  reason  to  blame 
herself,  and  all  the  unturned  leaves  of  life  awaited  her. 
Now  she  had  turned  over  one  page,  and  marred  it,  she  had 
won  a  friend  and  lost  him,  she  had  spoiled  the  picture, 
which  she  had  not  wished  to  keep ! 

Her  uncle  lay  upstairs,  ready  to  bear,  but  hardly  wel- 


ig6  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

coming  her  company.  He  had  his  secrets,  and  she  stood 
outside  them.  She  sat  below,  enclosed  in  and  menaced  by 
the  silence  of  the  house.  Yet  it  was  not  fear  that  she  felt 
so  much  as  a  sadness,  a  great  depression,  a  gray  despond- 
ency. She  craved  something,  she  did  not  know  what. 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  alone — and  sad. 

She  tried  to  fight  against  the  feeling.  She  tried  to  read, 
to  work,  even  to  interest  herself  in  Toft  and  his  mystery. 
She  failed.  And  at  last  she  gave  up  the  attempt  and  with 
her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  eyes  on  the  fire  she  fell 
to  musing,  the  ticking  of  the  tall  clock  and  the  fall  of  the 
embers  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
shadowy  room.  / 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TOFT   AT    THE   BUTTERFLIES 

BASSET'S  view  of  Toft,  if  it  did  not  hit,  came  very  near  the 
mark.  For  many  years  the  man  had  served  his  master 
with  loyalty,  the  relations  between  them  being  such  as 
were  common  in  days  when  servants  stayed  long  in  a  place 
and  held  themselves  a  part  of  the  family.  The  master 
had  been  easy,  the  man  had  had  no  ambitions  beyond  those 
of  his  fellows,  and  no  temptations  except  those  which 
turned  upon  the  cellar-book. 

But  a  year  before  Mary  Audley's  arrival  two  things  had 
happened.  First  the  curate  had  fallen  in  love  with  Etruria, 
and  the  fact  had  become  known  to  her  father,  to  whom  the 
girl  was  everything.  Her  refinement,  her  beauty,  her  good- 
ness were  his  secret  delight.  And  the  thought  that  she 
might  become  a  lady,  that  she  might  sit  at  the  table  at 
which  he  served  had  taken  hold  of  the  austere  man's  mind 
and  become  a  passion.  He  was  ready  to  do  anything  and 
to  suffer  anything  to  bring  this  about.  Nor  was  he  de- 
ceived when  Etruria  put  the  offer  aside.  She  was  nothing 
if  not  transparent,  and  he  was  too  fond  of  her  not  to  see 
that  her  happiness  was  bound  up  with  the  man  who  had 
stooped  to  woo  her. 

He  was  not  blind  to  the  difficulties  or  to  the  clergyman's 
poverty.  But  he  saw  that  Colet,  poor  as  he  was,  could 
raise  his  daughter  in  the  social  scale;  and  he  spent  long 
hours  in  studying  how  the  marriage  might  be  brought 
about.  He  hugged  the  matter  to  him,  and  brooded  over  it, 
but  he  never  discovered  his  thoughts  or  his  hopes  either  to 
his  wife,  or  to  Etruria. 


ip8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Then  one  day  the  sale  of  a  living  happened  to  be  dis- 
cussed in  his  presence,  and  as  he  went,  solemn  and  silent, 
round  the  table  he  listened.  He  learned  that  livings  could 
be  bought.  He  learned  that  the  one  in  question,  with  its 
house  and  garden  and  three  hundred  a  year,  had  fetched  a 
thousand  guineas,  and  from  that  day  Toft's  aim  was  by 
hook  or  crook  to  gain  a  thousand  guineas.  He  revelled 
in  impossible  dreams  of  buying  a  living,  of  giving  it  to 
Etruria,  and  of  handing  maid  and  dowry  to  the  fortunate 
man  who  was  to  make  her  a  lady. 

There  have  been  more  sordid  and  more  selfish  ambitions. 

But  a  thousand  guineas  was  a  huge  sum  to  the  man- 
servant. True,  he  had  saved  a  hundred  and  twenty  pounds, 
and  for  his  position  in  life  he  held  himself  a  rich  man. 
But  a  thousand  guineas?  He  turned  the  matter  this  way 
and  that,  and  sometimes  he  lost  hope,  and  sometimes  he 
pinned  his  faith  to  a  plan  that  twenty-four  hours  showed 
to  be  futile.  All  the  time  his  wife  who  lay  beside  him,  his 
daughter  who  waited  on  him,  his  master  on  whom  he 
waited,  were  as  far  from  seeing  into  his  mind  as  if  they  had 
lived  in  another  planet. 

Then  the  second  thing  happened.  He  surprised,  wholly 
by  chance,  a  secret  which  gave  him  a  hold  over  John 
Audley.  Under  other  circumstances  he  might  have  been 
above  using  the  advantage;  as  it  was,  he  was  tempted.  He 
showed  his  hand,  a  sum  of  four  hundred  pounds  was 
named;  for  a  week  he  fancied  that  he  had  performed  half 
his  task.  Then  his  master  explained  with  a  gentle  smile 
that  to  know  and  to  prove  were  two  things,  and  that 
whereas  Toft  had  for  a  time  been  able  to  do  both,  John 
Audley  had  now  destroyed  the  evidence.  The  master  had 
in  fact  been  too  sly  for  the  man,  and  Toft  found  himself 
pretty  well  where  he  had  been.  In  the  end  Audley  thought 
it  prudent  to  give  him  a  hundred  pounds,  which  did  but 
whet  his  desire  and  sharpen  his  wits. 

For  he  had  now  tasted  blood.    He  had  made  something 


TOFT  AT  THE  BUTTERFLIES  199 

by  a  secret.  There  might  be  others  to  learn.  He  kept  his 
eyes  open,  and  soon  he  became  aware  of  his  master's  dis- 
appearances. He  tracked  him,  he  played  the  spy,  he  dis- 
covered that  John  Audley  was  searching  for  something  in 
the  Great  House.  The  words  that  the  old  man  let  fall, 
while  half-conscious  in  the  Yew  Walk,  added  to  his  knowl- 
edge, and  at  the  same  time  scared  him.  A  moment  later, 
and  Lord  Audley  might  have  known  as  much  as  he  knew 
— and  perhaps  more! 

For  he  did  not  as  yet  know  all,  and  it  was  in  the  attempt 
to  complete  his  knowledge  that  Mary  had  caught  him 
listening  at  the  door.  The  blow  was  a  sharp  one.  He  was 
still  so  far  unspoiled,  still  so  near  the  old  Toft  that  he 
could  not  bear  that  his  wife  and  daughter  should  learn  the 
depth  to  which  he  had  fallen.  And  John  Audley?  What 
would  he  do,  if  Mary  told  him  ? 

Toft  could  not  guess.  He  knew  that  his  master  was 
barely  sane,  if  he  was  sane ;  but  he  knew  also  that  he  was 
utterly  inhuman.  John  Audley  would  put  him  and  his 
family  to  the  door  without  mercy  if  that  seemed  to  him 
the  safer  course.  And  that  meant  an  end  of  all  his  plans 
for  Etruria,  for  Colet,  for  them  all. 

True,  he  might  use  such  power  as  he  had.  But  it  was 
imperfect,  and  in  its  use  he  must  come  to  grips  with  one 
who  had  shown  himself  his  better  both  in  courage  and  cun- 
ning. He  had  imbibed  a  strong  fear  of  his  master,  and 
he  could  not  without  a  qualm  contemplate  a  struggle  with 
him. 

For  a  week  after  his  detection  by  Mary,  he  went  about 
his  work  in  a  fever  of  anxiety.  And  nothing  happened ;  it 
was  that  which  tried  him.  More  than  once  he  was  on  the 
point  of  throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  of  telling  her  all  he 
knew,  of  imploring  her  pardon.  It  was  only  her  averted 
eyes  and  cold  tone  that  held  him  back. 

Such  a  crisis  makes  a  man  either  better  or  worse,  and 
it  made  Toft  worse.  At  the  end  of  three  days  a  chance 


200  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

word  put  a  fine  point  on  his  fears  and  stung  him  to  action. 
He  might  not  know  enough  to  face  John  Audley,  but  he 
thought  that  he  knew  enough  to  sell  his  secret — in  the  other 
camp.  His  lordship  was  young  and  probably  malleable. 
He  would  go  to  him  and  strike  a  bargain. 

Arrived  at  this  point  the  man  did  not  hide  from  him- 
self that  he  was  going  to  do  a  hateful  thing.  He  thought 
of  his  wife  and  her  wonder  could  she  know.  He  thought 
of  Etruria's  mild  eyes  and  her  goodness.  And  he  shivered. 
But  it  was  for  her.  It  was  for  them.  Within  twenty-four 
hours  he  was  in  Riddsley. 

As  he  passed  the  Maypole,  where  Mr.  Colet  had  his 
lodgings,  he  noticed  that  the  town  wore  an  unusual  aspect. 
Groups  of  men  stood  talking  in  the  doorway,  or  on  the 
doorsteps.  A  passing  horseman  was  shouting  to  a  man  at 
a  window.  Xearer  the  middle  of  the  town  the  stir  was 
greater.  About  the  saddler's  door,  about  the  steps  leading 
up  to  the  Audley  Arms,  and  round  the  yard  of  the  inn, 
knots  of  men  argued  and  gesticulated.  Toft  asked  the 
saddler  what  it  was. 

"Haven't  you  heard?" 

"Xo.    What's  the  news?" 

"  The  General  Election's  off !  "  The  saddler  proclaimed 
it  with  an  inflamed  look.  "  Peel's  in  again !  And  damn 
me,  after  this,"  he  continued,  "  there's  nothing  I  won't 
swallow !  He  come  in  in  the  farming  interest,  and  the 
hunting  interest,  and  the  racing  interest,  and  the  gentle- 
manly interest,  that  I  live  by,  and  you  too,  Mr.  Toft !  And 
it  was  bad  enough  when  he  threw  it  up !  But  to  go  in  again 
and  to  take  our  money  and  do  the  Eadicals'  work !  "  The 
saddler  spat  on  the  brick  pavement.  "  Why,  there  was 
never  such  a  thing  heard  of  in  the  'varsal  world!  Never! 
If  Tamworth  don't  blush  for  him  and  his  pigs  turn  pink, 
I'm  d— d,  and  that's  all." 

Toft  had  to  ask  half  a  dozen  questions  before  he  grasped 
the  position.  Gradually  he  learned  that  after  Peel  had 


TOFT  AT  THE  BUTTERFLIES  201 

resigned  the  "Whigs  had  tried  to  form  a  government;  that 
they  had  failed,  and  that  now  Peel  was  to  come  in  again, 
expressly  to  repeal  the  Corn  Laws.  The  Corn  Laws  which 
he  had  taken  office  to  support,  and  to  the  maintenance  of 
which  his  party  was  pledged ! 

The  thing  was  not  much  in  Toft's  way,  nor  his  interest 
in  it  great,  but  as  he  passed  along  he  caught  odds  and  ends 
of  conversation.  "  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  "  cried  an 
angry  man.  "  The  Radicals  have  invented  it !  "  "  Like 
enough !  "  replied  another.  "  Like  enough !  There's 
naught  they  wouldn't  do !  "  "  Well,  after  all,"  suggested  a 
third  in  a  milder  tone,  "  cheap  bread  is  something." 
"What?  If  you've  got  no  money  to  buy  it?  You're  a 
fool !  I  tell  you  it'll  be  the  ruin  of  Riddsley !  "  "  You're 
right  there,  Joe !  "  answered  the  first  speaker.  "  You're 
right!  There'll  be  no  farmer  for  miles  round  '11  pay  his 
way !  " 

At  the  door  of  Mr.  Stubbs's  office  three  excited  clients 
were  clamoring  for  entrance;  an  elderly  clerk  with  a  high 
bridge  to  his  nose  was  withstanding  them.  Before  the 
Mechanics'  Institute  the  secretary,  a  superior  person  of 
Manchester  views,  was 'talking  pompously  to  a  little  group. 
"  We  must  take  in  the  whole  field,"  Toft  heard  him  say. 

"  If  you'll  read  Mr.  Carlyle's  tract  on "  Toft  lost  the 

rest.  The  Institute  readers  belonged  mainly  to  Ilatton's 
Works  or  Banfield's,  and  the  secretary  taught  in  an  even- 
ing school.  He  was  darkly  suspected  of  being  a  teetotaller, 
but  it  had  never  been  proved  against  him. 

Toft  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  chosen  his  time  well, 
but  he  was  near  The  Butterflies  and  he  hardened  his  heart; 
to  retreat  now  were  to  dub  himself  coward.  He  told  the 
maid  that  he  came  from  the  Gatehouse,  and  that  he  was 
directed  to  deliver  a  letter  into  his  lordship's  own  hand,  and 
in  a  moment  he  found  himself  mounting  the  shallow  car- 
peted stairs.  In  comparison  with  the  Gatehouse,  the  house 
was  modern,  elegant,  luxurious,  the  passages  were  warm. 


202  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

When  he  was  ushered  in,  his  lordship,  a  dressing-gown 
cast  over  a  chair  beside  him  as  if  he  had  just  put  on  his 
coat,  was  writing  near  the  fireplace.  After  an  interval  that 
seemed  long  to  Toft,  who  eyed  his  heavy  massiveness  with 
a  certain  dismay,  he  laid  down  his  pen,  sat  back,  and  looked 
at  the  servant. 

"  From  the  Gatehouse  ? "  he  asked,  after  a  leisurely 
survey. 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  Toft  answered  respectfully.  "I  was 
with  Mr.  Audley  when  he  was  taken  ill  in  the  Yew  Walk." 

"  To  be  sure !  I  thought  I  knew  your  face.  You've  a 
letter  for  me?  " 

Toft  hesitated.  "  I  wished  to  see  you,  my  lord,"  he 
said.  The  thing  was  not  as  easy  as  he  had  hoped  it  would 
be ;  the  man  was  more  formidable.  "  On  a  matter  of 
business." 

Audley  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Business?"  he  said. 
"  Isn't  it  Mr.  Stubbs  you  want  to  see  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,"  Toft  answered.  But  the  sweat  broke  out 
on  his  forehead.  WTiat  if  his  lordship  took  a  high  tone, 
ordered  him  out,  and  reported  the  matter  to  his  master? 
Too  late  it  struck  Toft  that  a  gentleman  might  take  that 
line. 

"  Well,  be  quick,"  Audley  replied.  Then  in  a  different 
tone,  "  You  don't  come  from  Miss  Audley  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

Toft  turned  his  hat  in  his  hands.  "  I  have  information  " 
— it  was  with  difficulty  he  could  control  his  voice — 
"  which  it  is  to  your  lordship's  interest  to  have." 

There  was  a  pregnant  pause.  "  Oh !  "  the  young  man 
said  at  last.  "  And  you  come — to  sell  it  ?  " 

Toft  nodded,  unable  to  speak.  Yet  he  was  getting  on  as 
well  as  could  be  expected. 

"  Rather  an  unusual  position,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 


TOFT  AT  THE  BUTTERFLIES  203 

"  The  information  should  be  unusual  ?  " 

"  It  is,  my  lord." 

Lord  Audley  smiled.  "  Well/'  he  answered,  "  I'll  say 
this,  my  man.  If  you  are  going  to  sell  me  a  spavined  horse, 
don't !  It  will  not  be  to  your  advantage.  What's  it  all 
about?" 

"  Mr.  Audley's  claim,  my  lord." 

Audley  had  expected  this,  yet  he  could  not  quite  mask  the 
effect  which  the  statement  made  upon  him.  The  thing  that 
he  had  foreseen  and  feared,  that  had  haunted  him  in  the 
small  hours  and  been  as  it  were  a  death's-head  at  his  feast, 
was  taking  shape.  But  he  was  quick  to  recover  himself, 
and  "  Oh !  "  said  he.  "  That's  it,  is  it !  Don't  you  know 
that  that's  all  over,  my  man  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,  my  lord/' 

The  peer  took  up  a  paper-knife  and  toyed  with  it. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?  Come,  I  don't  buy  a  pig 
in  a  poke/' 

"  Mr.  Audley  has  found " 

"  Found,  eh  ?  "  raising  his  eyebrows. 

Toft  corrected  himself.  "  He  has  in  his  power  papers 
that  upset  your  lordship's  case.  I  can  still  enable  you  to 
keep  those  papers  in  your  hands." 

Audley  threw  down  the  paper-cutter.  "  They  are  cer- 
tainly worthless,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  contemptuous, 
but  there  was  a  hard  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Mr.  Audley  thinks  otherwise." 

"  But  he  has  not  seen  them  ?  " 

"  He  knows  what's  in  them,  my  lord.  He  has  been 
searching  for  them  for  weeks." 

The  young  man  weighed  this,  and  Toft's  courage  rose, 
and  his  confidence.  The  trumps  were  in  his  hand,  and 
though  for  a  moment  he  had  shrunk  before  the  other's 
heavy  jaw  he  was  glad  now  that  he  had  come;  more  glad 
when  the  big  man  after  a  long  pause  asked  quietly,  "  What 
do  you  want  ?  " 


204  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Five  hundred  pounds,  my  lord." 

The  other  laughed,  and  Toft  did  not  like  the  laugh. 
"Indeed?  Five  hundred  pounds?  That's  a  good  deal  of 
money !  " 

"  The  information  is  worth  that,  or  it  is  worth  noth- 
ing." 

"  I  quite  agree !  "  the  peer  answered  lightly.  "  You're 
a  wit,  my  man.  But  that's  not  saying  you've  a  good  case. 
However,  I'll  put  you  to  the  test.  You  know  where  the 
papers  are  ?  " 

"  I  do,  my  lord." 

"  Very  good.  There's  a  piece  of  paper.  Write  on  one 
side  the  precise  place  where  they  lie.  I  will  write  on  the 
other  a  promise  to  pay  £500  if  the  papers  are  found  in  that 
place,  and  are  of  the  value  you  assert.  That  is  a  fair 
offer." 

Toft  stood  irresolute.    He  thought  hard. 

My  lord  pushed  the  paper  across.  "  Come ! "  he  said ; 
"  write!  Or  I'll  write  first,  if  that  is  your  trouble."  With 
decision  he  seized  a  quill,  held  it  poised  a  moment,  then  he 
wrote  four  lines  and  signed  them  with  a  nourish,  added  the 
date,  and  read  them  to  himself.  With  a  grim  smile  he 
pushed  the  paper  across  to  Toft.  "  There,"  he  said. 
"  What  more  do  you  want,  my  man,  than  that?  " 

Toft  took  the  paper  and  read  what  was  written  on  it, 
from  the  "  In  consideration  of,"  that  began  the  sentence,  to 
the  firm  signature  "  Audley  of  Beaudelays  "  that  closed  it. 
He  did  not  speak. 

"  Come !  You  can't  want  anything  more  than  that !  " 
my  lord  said.  "  You  have  only  to  write,  read  me  the 
secret,  and  keep  the  paper  until  it  is  redeemed." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"Then  take  the  pen.  Of  course  the  place  must  be  pre- 
cise. I  am  not  going  to  pull  down  Beaudelays  House  to 
find  a  box  of  papers  that  I  do  not  believe  is  there ! " 

Toft's  face  was  gray,  the  sweat  stood  on  his  lip.    "  I  did 


TOFT  AT  THE  BUTTERFLIES  205 

not  say,"  he  muttered,  the  paper  rustling  in  his  unsteady 
hand,  "  that  they  were  in  Beaudelays  House/' 

"  Xo  ?  "  Audley  replied.  "  Perhaps  not.  And  for  the 
matter  of  that,  it  is  not  a  question  of  saying  anything.  It 
is  a  question  of  writing.  You  can  write,  I  suppose?" 

Toft  did  not  speak.  He  could  not  speak.  He  had  sup- 
posed that  the  power  to  put  his  lordship  on  the  scent  would 
be  the  same  as  pulling  down  the  fox.  When  he  had  said 
that  the  papers  were  in  the  house,  that  they  were  behind  a 
wall,  that  Mr.  Audley  knew  where  they  were,  he  would  have 
earned — he  thought — his  money! 

But  he  had  not  known  the  man  with  whom  he  had  to 
deal.  And  challenged  to  set  down  the  place  where  the 
papers  lay,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  do  it.  In  the  house  ? 
Behind  a  wall  ?  He  saw  now  that  that  would  not  do.  That 
would  not  satisfy  the  big  smiling  gentleman  who  sat 
opposite  him,  amused  at  the  dilemma  in  which  he  found 
himself. 

He  knew  that  he  was  cornered,  and  he  lost  his  coun- 
tenance and  his  manners.  He  swore. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  The  biter  bit,"  he  said. 
"Five  hundred  pounds  you  said,  didn't  you?  I  wonder 
whether  I  ought  to  send  for  the  constable?  Or  tell  Mr. 
Audley?  That  would  be  wiser  perhaps?  What  do  you 
think  you  deserve,  my  man?" 

Toft  stretched  out  a  shaking  arm  towards  the  paper. 
But  my  lord  was  before  him.  His  huge  hand  fell  on  it. 
He  tore  it  across  and  across,  and  threw  the  pieces  under  the 
table. 

"  Xo,"  he  said,  "  that  won't  do !  You  will  write  at  a 
venture  and  if  you  are  right  you  will  claim  the  money,  and 
if  you  are  wrong  you  will  have  this  paper  to  show  that  I 
bargained  with  you.  But  I  never  meant  to  bargain  with 
you,  my  good  rascal.  I  knew  you  were  a  fraud.  I  knew  it 
from  the  beginning.  And  now  I've  only  one  thing  to  say. 
Either  you  will  tell  me  freely  what  you  know,  and  in  that 


206  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

case  I  shall  say  nothing.  Or  I  report  you  to  your  master. 
That's  my  last  word." 

Toft  shook  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  done  a  hateful 
thing,  he  had  been  defeated,  and  exposure  threatened  him. 
As  far  as  his  master  was  concerned  he  could  face  it.  But 
his  wife,  his  daughter?  Who  thought  him  honest,  loyal, 
who  thought  him  a  man !  Who  believed  in  him !  How 
could  he,  how  would  he  face  them,  if  this  tale  were  told? 

My  lord  saw  the  change  in  him,  saw  how  he  shrank,  and, 
smiling,  he  fancied  that  he  had  the  man  in  his  grasp, 
fancied  that  he  would  tell  what  he  knew,  and  tell  it  for 
nothing.  And  twice  Toft  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  and 
twice  no  words  came.  For  at  the  last  moment,  in  this 
strait,  what  there  was  of  good  in  him — and  there  was 
good — rose  up,  and  had  the  better;  had  the  better,  re- 
inforced perhaps  by  his  hatred  of  the  heavy  smiling  face 
that  gloated  upon  him. 

For  at  the  last  moment,  "No,  my  lord,"  he  said  des- 
perately, "  I'll  not  speak.  I'm  d — d  if  I  do !  You  may  do 
what  you  like." 

And  before  his  lordship,  taken  by  surprise,  could  inter- 
pose, the  servant  had  turned  and  made  for  the  door.  He 
was  half-way  down  the  stairs  before  the  other  had  risen 
from  his  seat.  He  had  escaped.  He  was  clear  for  the 
time,  and  safe  in  the  road  he  breathed  more  freely.  But 
he  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  on  his  way  before  he  remarked 
that  he  was  in  the  open  air,  or  bethought  himself  to  put 
on  his  hat. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MY   LORD   SPEAKS 

FOR  a  few  moments  Audley  had  certainly  hoped  that  he 
was  going  to  learn  all  that  Toft  knew,  and  to  learn  it  for 
nothing.  He  had  been  baulked  in  this.  But  when  he  came 
to  think  over  the  matter  he  was  not  ill  content  with  him- 
self, nor  with  his  conduct  of  the  interview.  He  had  dealt 
with  the  matter  with  presence  of  mind,  and  in  the  only 
safe  way ;  and  he  had  taught  the  man  a  lesson.  "  He  knows 
by  this  time,"  he  reflected,  "  that  if  I  am  a  lord,  I  am  not 
a  fool ! » 

But  this  mood  did  not  last  long,  and  it  was  succeeded 
by  one  less  cheerful.  The  death's-head  had  never  been 
wanting  at  his  feast.  The  family  tradition  which  had 
come  down  to  him  with  his  blood  had  never  ceased  to  haunt 
him,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night  he  had  many  a  time 
heard  John  Audley  at  work  seeking  for  the  means  to  dis- 
place him.  Even  the  great  empty  house  had  seemed  to 
mock  his  pretensions. 

But  until  the  last  month  his  fears  had  been  vague  and 
shadowy,  and  in  his  busy  hours  he  had  laughed  at  them. 
He  was  Lord  Audley,  he  sat,  he  voted,  the  doors  of  White's, 
of  Almack's  were  open  to  him.  In  town  he  was  a  person- 
age, in  the  country  a  divinity  still  hedged  him,  no  trades- 
man spoke  to  him  save  hat  in  hand.  Then,  lately,  the 
traces  which  he  had  found  in  the  Great  House  had  given  a 
shape  to  his  fears;  and  within  the  last  hour  he  had  learned 
their  solidity.  Sane  or  mad,  John  Audley  was  upon  his 

207 


208  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

track,  bent  upon  displacing  him,  bent  upon  ruining  him; 
and  this  very  day  the  man  might  be  laying  his  hand  upon 
the  thing  he  needed. 

Audley  did  not  doubt  the  truth  of  Toft's  story.  It 
confirmed  his  fears  only  too  well ;  and  the  family  tradition 
— that  too  weighed  with  him.  He  sat  for  a  long  time 
staring  before  him,  then,  uneasy  and  restless,  he  rose  and 
paced  the  floor.  He  went  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  until 
by-and-by  he  came  to  a  stand  before  one  of  the  windows. 
He  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  glass.  There  was  one 
way,  certainly.  Stubbs  had  said  so,  and  Stubbs  was  right. 
There  was  one  way,  if  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  the 
limitations  it  would  impose  upon  him.  If  he  could  make 
up  his  mind  to  be  a  poor  man. 

The  window  at  which  he  stood  looked  on  a  road  of  quiet 
dignity,  a  little  removed  from  the  common  traffic  of  the 
town.  But  the  windows,  looking  sideways,  commanded 
also  a  more  frequented  thoroughfare  which  crossed  this 
street.  His  thoughts  far  away  and  sombrely  engaged,  the 
young  man  watched  the  stream  of  passers,  as  it  trickled 
across  the  distant  opening. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  recalled  his  mind  to  the  present.  He 
started,  turned,  in  three  strides  he  was  beside  the  hearth. 
He  rang  the  bell  twice,  the  signal  for  his  man.  He  waited 
impatiently. 

"  My  hat  and  coat !  "  he  cried  to  the  servant.  "  Quick, 
I'm  in  a  hurry !  "  Like  most  men  who  have  known  vicissi- 
tudes he  had  a  superstitious  side,  and  the  figure  which  he 
had  seen  pass  across  the  end  of  the  road  had  appeared  so 
aptly,  so  timely,  had  had  so  much  the  air  of  an  answer  to 
his  doubts  that  he  took  it  for  an  inspiration. 

He  ran  down  the  stairs,  but  he  knew  that  his  comings 
and  goings  were  marked,  and  once  outside  the  house  he 
controlled  his  impatience.  He  walked  slowly,  humming  a 
tune  and  swaying  his  cane,  and  it  was  a  very  stately 
gentleman  taking  the  air  and  acknowledging  with  courtesy 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  209 

the  respectful  salutations  of  the  passers,  who  came  on  Mary 
Audley  as  she  turned  from  Dr.  Pepper's  door  in  the  High 
Street. 

He  stood.    "  Miss  Audley !  "  he  cried. 

Mary  was  flushed  with  exercise,  ruffled  by  the  wind, 
travel-stained.  But  she  would  have  cared  little  for  these 
things  if  she  could  have  governed  the  blood  that  rose  to 
her  cheeks  at  his  sudden  appearance.  To  mask  her  con- 
fusion she  rushed  into  speech. 

"  You  cannot  be  more  surprised  than  I  am/'  she  said. 
"  My  uncle  is  not  so  well  to-day,  and  in  a  panic  about  his 
medicine.  Toft,  who  should  have  come  in  to  town  to  fetch 
it,  was  not  to  be  found,  so  I  had  to  come/' 

"  And  you  have  walked  in?  " 

Smiling,  she  showed  him  her  boots.  "And  I  am  pres- 
ently going  to  walk  out,"  she  said. 

"  You  will  never  do  it?  " 

"  Before  dark  ?  No,  perhaps  not !  "  She  raised  her  hand 
and  put  back  a  tress  of  hair  which  had  strayed  from  its 
fellows.  "  And  I  shall  be  tired.  But  I  shall  be  much  sur- 
prised if  I  cannot  walk  ten  miles  at  a  pinch." 

"  I  shall  be  surprised  if  you  walk  ten  miles  to-day,"  he 
retorted.  "  My  plans  for  you  are  quite  different.  Have 
you  got  what  you  came  to  fetch  ?  " 

She  had  steadied  herself,  and  was  by  this  time  at  her 
ease.  She  made  a  little  grimace.  "  No,"  she  said.  "  It 
will  not  be  ready  for  quarter  of  an  hour." 

He  rang  Dr.  Pepper's  bell.  An  awestruck  apprentice, 
who  had  watched  the  interview  through  the  dusty  window 
of  the  surgery,  showed  himself. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  send  the  medicine  for  Miss 
Audley  to  Mrs.  Jenkinson's,"  Audley  said.  "You  under- 
stand ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord !    Certainly,  my  lord !  " 

She  was  going  to  protest.  He  turned  to  her,  silenced 
her.  "  And  now  I  take  possession  of  you/'  he  said, 


210  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

supremely  careless  what  the  lad  heard.  "  You  are  coming 
to  The  Butterflies  to  take  tea,  or  sherry,  or  whatever  you 
take  when  you  have  walked  five  miles." 

"  Oh,  Lord  Audley !  " 

"  And  then  I  am  going  to  drive  you  as  far  as  the  old 
Cross,  and  walk  up  the  hill  with  you — as  far  as  I  choose." 

"Oh,  but  I  cannot!  "  Mary  cried,  coloring  charmingly, 
but  whether  with  pleasure  or  embarrassment  she  could  not 
tell.  She  only  knew  that  his  ridiculous  way  of  taking  pos- 
session of  her,  the  very  masterfulness  of  it,  moved  her 
strangely.  "  I  cannot  indeed.  What  would  my  uncle 
say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care !  "  he  replied,  swinging 
his  walking  cane,  and  smiling  as  he  towered  above  her. 
"  He  may  go  hang — for  once !  " 

She  hesitated.  "  It  is  very  good  of  you,"  she  said.  "  I 
confess  I  did  not  look  forward  to  the  walk  back.  But " 

"  There  is  no — but,"  he  replied.  "  And  no  walk  back ! 
It  is  arranged.  It  is  time — "  his  eyes  dwelt  kindly  on  her 
as  she  turned  with  him — "  it  is  time  that  some  one  took  it 
in  hand  to  arrange  things  for  you.  Five  miles  in  and  five 
miles  out  over  dirty  roads  on  a  winter  afternoon — and  Miss 
Audley !  Xo,  no !  And  now — this  way,  please !  " 

She  yielded,  she  could  not  tell  why,  except  that  it  was 
difficult  to  resist  him,  and  not  unpleasant  to  obey  him. 
And  after  all,  why  should  she  not  go  with  him?  She  had 
been  feeling  fagged  and  tired,  depressed,  moreover,  by  her 
uncle's  fears.  The  low-lying  fields,  the  town,  the  streets, 
all  dingy  under  a  gray  autumn  sky,  had  given  her  no 
welcome. 

And  her  thoughts,  too,  had  been  dun-colored.  She  had 
felt  very  lonely  the  last  few  days,  doubtful  of  the  future, 
without  aim,  nipped.  And  now  in  a  moment  all  seemed 
changed.  She  was  no  longer  alone,  nor  fearful.  The 
streets  were  no  longer  dingy  nor  dreary.  There  were  still 
pleasant  things  in  the  world,  kindness,  and  thought  for 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  211 

others,  and  friendship  and — and  tea  and  cake!  Was  it 
wonderful  that  as  she  walked  along  beside  my  lord  her 
spirits  rose?  That  she  felt  an  unaccountable  relief,  and 
in  the  reaction  of  the  moment  smiled  and  sparkled  more 
than  her  wont?  That  the  muddy  brick  pavement,  the  low- 
browed shops,  the  leafless  trees  all  seemed  brighter  than 
before,  and  that  even  the  butcher's  stall  became  almost  a 
thing  of  beauty? 

And  he  responded  famously.  He  swung  his  stick,  he 
laughed,  he  was  gay.  "  Don't  pretend !  "  he  said.  "  I  see 
that  you  were  glad  enough  to  meet  me !  " 

"  And  the  tea  and  cake !  "  she  replied.  "  After  five  miles 
who  would  not  be  glad  to  meet  them  ?  " 

"Exactly!  It  is  my  belief  that  if  I  had  not  met  you, 
you  would  have  fallen  by  the  way.  You  want  some  one  to 
look  after  you,  Miss  Audley."  The  name  was  a  caress. 

Xor  was  the  pleasure  all  their  own.  Great  was  the 
excitement  of  the  townsfolk  as  they  passed.  "  His  lordship 
and  a  young  lady?"  cried  half  Riddsley,  running  to  the 
windows.  "  Quick,  or  you  will  miss  them !  "  Some  won- 
dered who  she  could  be;  more  had  seen  her  at  church  and 
could  answer.  "Miss  Audley?  The  young  lady  who  had 
come  to  live  at  the  Gatehouse  ?  Indeed !  You  don't  say 
so?"  For  every  soul  in  Riddsley,  over  twelve  years  old, 
was  versed  in  the  Audley  history,  knew  all  about  the  suit, 
and  could  tell  off  the  degrees  of  kindred  as  easily  as  they 
could  tell  the  distance  from  the  Audley  Arms  to  the  Port- 
cullis. "Mr.  Peter  Audley's  daughter  who  lived  in  Paris? 
Lady-in-waiting  to  a  Princess.  And  now  walking  with  his 
lordship  as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her  life!  What 
would  Mr.  John  say?  D'you  see  how  gay  he  looks!  Not 
a  bit  what  he  is  when  he  speaks  to  us !  Wonder  whether 
there's  anything  in  it ! "  And  so  on,  and  so  on,  with 
tit-bits  from  the  history  of  Mary's  father,  and  choice 
eccentricities  from  the  life  of  John  Audley. 

Mrs.  Jenkinson's  amazement,  as  she  espied  them  coming 


212  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

up  the  path  to  the  house,  was  a  thing  by  itself.  It  was 
such  that  she  set  her  door  ajar  that  she  might  see  them  pass 
through  the  hall.  She  was  all  of  a  twitter,  she  said  after- 
wards. And  poor  Jane  and  poor  Sarah — who  were  out! 
What  a  miss  they  were  having!  It  was  not  thrice  in  the 
twelve  months  that  his  lordship  brought  a  lady  to  the 
house. 

A  greater  miss,  indeed,  it  turned  out,  than  she  thought. 
For  to  her  gratification  Lord  Audley  tapped  at  her  door. 
He  pushed  it  open.  "  Mrs.  Jenkinson,"  he  said  pleasantly, 
"  this  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Audley,  who  is  good  enough  to 
take  a  cup  of  your  excellent  tea  with  me,  if  you  will  make 
it.  She  has  walked  in  from  the  Gatehouse." 

Mrs.  Jenkinson  was  a  combination  of  an  eager,  bright- 
eyed  bird  and  a  stout,  short  lady  in  dove-colored  silk — if 
such  a  tiling  can  be  imagined;  and  the  soul  of  good-nature. 
She  took  Mary  by  both  hands,  beamed  upon  her,  and 
figuratively  took  her  to  her  bosom.  "A  little  cake  and 
wine,  my  dear,"  she  chirruped.  "  After  a  long  walk !  And 
then  tea.  To  be  sure,  my  dear !  I  knew  your  father,  Mr. 
Peter  Audley,  a  dear,  good  gentleman.  You  would  like  to 
wash  your  hands?  Yes,  my  dear !  Not  that  you  are  not — 
and  his  lordship  will  wait  for  us  upstairs.  Yes,  there's  a 
step.  I  knew  your  father,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  A  new 
brush,  my  dear.  And  now  will  you  let  me — not  that  your 
sweet  face  needs  any  ornament !  Yes,  I  talk  too  much — 
but,  there,  my  love,  when  you  are  as  old " 

She  was  a  simple  soul,  and  because  her  tongue  rarely 
stopped  she  might  have  been  thought  to  see  nothing.  But 
women,  unlike  men,  can  do  two  things  at  once,  and  little 
escaped  her  twinkling  spectacles.  As  she  told  her  sister 
later,  "  My  dear,  I  saw  it  was  spoons  from  the  first.  She 
sparkled  all  over,  bless  her  innocent  heart!  And  he,  if 
she  had  been  a  duchess,  could  not  have  waited  on  her  more 
elegant — well,  elegantly,  Sally,  if  you  like,  but  we  can't 
all  talk  like  you.  They  thought,  the  dear  creatures,  that 


M Y  LORD  SPEAKS  213 

I  saw  nothing;  but  once  he  said  something  too  low  for  me 
to  hear  and  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  her  pretty  eyes  were 
like  stars.  And  he  looked — well,  Sally,  I  could  not  tell  you 
how  he  looked !  " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  be  proper/'  the  spinster 
demurred. 

"  Ah,  well,  it  was  as  pretty  a  thing  as  you'd  wish  to  see/' 
the  good  creature  ran  on,  drumming  with  her  fingers  on  the 
lap  of  her  silk  gown.  "  And  she,  bless  her,  I  dare  say  she 
was  all  of  a  twitter,  but  she  didn't  show  it.  No  airs  or 
graces  either — but  there,  an  Audley  has  no  need!  Why, 
God  bless  me,  I  said  something  about  the  Princess  and 
what  company  she  must  have  seen,  and  what  a  change  for 
her,  and  she  up  and  said — I  am  sure  I  loved  her  for  it ! — 
that  she  had  been  no  more  than  a  governess !  My  dear,  an 
Audley  a  governess!  I  fancied  my  lord  wasn't  quite 
pleased,  and  very  natural !  But  when  a  man  is  spoons " 

"  My  dear  sister !  " 

"  Vulgar  ?  Well,  perhaps  so,  I  know  I  run  on,  but  gentle 
or  simple,  they're  the  same  when  they're  in  love !  And 
Jane  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  she  took  two  pieces  of  the 
sultana  and  two  cups  of  tea,  and  he  watching  every  piece 
she  put  in  her  mouth,  and  she  coloring  up,  once  or  twice, 
so  that  it  did  my  heart  good  to  see  them,  the  pretty  dears. 
Jane  will  be  pleased.  And  there  might  have  been  nothing 
but  seed  cake  in  the  house.  I  shall  remember  more  pres- 
ently, but  I  was  in  such  a  twitter !  " 

"  What  did  she  call  him?"  Miss  Sarah  asked. 

"  To  be  sure,  my  dear,  that  was  what  I  was  going  to  tell 
you!  I  listened,  and  not  a  single  thing  did  she  call  him. 
But  once,  when  he  gave  her  some  cake,  I  heard  him  call  her 
Mary,  for  all  the  world  as  if  it  was  a  bit  of  sugar  in  his 
mouth.  And  there  came  a  kind  of  quiver  over  her  pretty 
face,  and  she  looked  at  her  plate  as  much  as  to  say  it  was 
a  new  thing.  And  I  said  to  myself  '  Philip  and  Mary ' 
— out  of  the  old  school-books  you  know,  but  who  they  were 


214  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

I  don't  remember.  But  it's  my  opinion,"  Mrs.  Jenkinson 
continued,  rubbing  her  nose  with  the  end  of  her  spec- 
tacles, "  that  he  had  spoken  just  before  they  came  in, 
Sally." 

"  You  don't  say  so  ?  "  Sarah  cried. 

"  If  you  ask  me,  there  was  a  kind  of  softness  about  them 
both!  Law,  when  I  think  what  you  and  Jane  missed 
through  going  to  that  stupid  Institute!  I  am  sure  you'll 
never  forgive  yourselves !  " 

The  good  lady  had  not  missed  much  herself,  but  she  was 
mistaken  in  thinking  that  the  two  had  come  to  an  under- 
standing. Indeed  when,  leaving  the  warmth  of  her  pres- 
ence behind  them,  they  drove  out  of  town,  with  the  servant 
seated  with  folded  arms  behind  them  and  Mary  snugly 
tucked  in  beside  my  lord,  a  new  constraint  began  to  sepa- 
rate them.  The  excitement  of  the  meeting  had  waned,  the 
fillip  of  the  unwonted  treat  had  lost  its  power.  A  depres- 
sion for  which  she  could  not  account  beset  Mary  as  they 
rolled  through  the  dull  outskirts  and  faced  the  flat  mist- 
ridden  pastures  and  the  long  lines  of  willows.  On  his 
side  doubt  held  him  silent.  He  had  found  it  pleasant  to 
come  to  the  brink,  he  had  not  been  blind  to  Mary's  smiles 
and  her  rare  blushes.  But  the  one  step  farther — that  could 
not  be  re-trodden,  and  it  was  in  the  nature  of  the  man  to 
hesitate  at  the  last,  and  to  consider  if  he  were  getting 
full  value. 

So,  as  they  drove  through  the  dusk,  now  noiselessly  over 
sodden  leaves,  now  drumming  along  the  hard  road,  the  hint 
of  a  chill  fell  between  them.  Mary's  thoughts  went  for- 
ward to  the  silent  house  and  the  lonely  rooms,  and  she  chid 
herself  for  ingratitude.  She  had  had  her  pleasure,  she  had 
had  an  unwonted  treat.  What  was  wrong  with  her?  What 
more  did  she  want? 

It  was  nearly  dark,  and  not  many  words  had  passed 
when  Lord  Audley  pulled  up  the  horses  at  the  old  Cross. 
The  man  leapt  down  and  was  going  to  help  Mary  to  alight, 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  215 

when  his  master  bade  him  take  the  box-seat  and  the 
reins. 

Mary  remonstrated.  "  Oh,  don't  get  down,  please !  "  she 
cried.  "  Please !  It  is  nothing  to  the  house  from  here." 

"  It  is  half  a  mile  if  it  is  a  yard,"  he  said.  "  And  it  is 
nearly  dark.  I  am  going  with  you."  He  bade  the  man 
walk  the  horses  up  and  down. 

She  ventured  another  protest,  but  he  put  it  aside.  He 
threw  back  the  rug  and  lifted  her  down.  For  a  moment  he 
stamped  about  and  stretched  himself.  Then  "Come, 
Mary,"  he  said.  It  was  an  order. 

She  knew  then  what  was  at  hand.  And  though  she  had  a 
minute  before  looked  forward  with  regret  to  the  parting,  all 
her  thought  now  was  how  she  might  escape  to  the  Gate- 
house. It  became  a  refuge.  Her  heart,  as  she  started  to 
walk  beside  him,  beat  so  quickly  that  she  could  not  speak. 
She  was  thankful  that  it  was  dark,  and  that  he  could  not 
read  her  agitation  in  her  face. 

He  did  not  speak  himself  for  some  minutes.  Then 
"  Mary,"  he  said  abruptly,  looking  straight  before  him, 
"  I  am  rather  one  for  taking  than  asking,  and  that  stands 
in  my  way  now.  When  I've  wanted  a  thing  I've  generally 
taken  it.  Now  I  want  a  thing  I  can't  take — without  ask- 
ing. And  I  feel  that  I'm  not  good  at  the  asking.  But  I 
want  it  badly,  and  I  must  do  the  best  I  can.  I  love  you, 
Mary.  I  love  you,  and  I  want  you  for  my  wife." 

She  could  not  find  a  word.  When  he  went  on  his  tone 
was  lower. 

"  I'm  rather  a  lonely  man,"  he  said.  *'  You  didn't  know 
that,  or  think  it?  But  it  is  true.  And  such  an  hour  as  we 
have  spent  to-day  is  not  mine  often.  It  lies  with  you  to 
say  if  I  am  going  to  have  more  of  them.  I  might  tell  you 
with  truth  that  I  haven't  much  to  offer  my  wife.  That  if 
I  am  Audley  of  Beaudelays,  I  am  the  poorest  Audley  that 
ever  was.  That  my  wife  will  be  no  great  lady,  and  will 
step  into  no  golden  shoes.  The  butterflies  are  moths,  Mary, 


216  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

nowadays,  and  if  I  am  ever  to  be  much  she  will  have  to  help 
me.  But  I  will  tell  no  lies,  my  dear !  "  He  turned  to  her 
then  and  stopped;  and  perforce,  though  her  knees  trembled, 
she  had  to  stand  also,  and  face  him  as  he  looked  down  at 
her.  "  I  am  not  going  to  pretend  that  what  I  have  to  offer 
isn't  enough.  For  you  are  lonely  like  me ;  you  have  no  one 
but  John  Audley  to  look  to,  and  I  am  big  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  take  care  of  you.  And  I  will  take  care 
of  you — if  you  will  let  me.  If  you  will  say  the  word, 
Mary?" 

He  loomed  above  her  in  the  darkness.  He  seemed 
already  to  possess  her.  She  tried  to  think,  tried  to  ask 
herself  if  she  loved  him,  if  she  loved  him  enough ;  but  the 
fancy  for  him  which  she  had  had  from  the  beginning,  that 
and  his  masterfulness  swept  her  irresistibly  towards  him. 
She  was  lonely — morejonely  than  ever  of  late,  and  to  whom 
was  she  to  look?  Who  else  had  been  as  good  to  her,  as 
kind  to  her,  as  thoughtful  for  her,  as  he  who  now  wooed 
her  so  honestly,  who  offered  her  all  he  had  to  offer?  She 
hesitated,  and  he  saw  that  she  hesitated. 

"  Come,  we've  got  to  have  this  out,"  he  said  bluntly. 
And  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  We  stand  alone, 
both  of  us,  you  and  I.  We're  the  last  of  the  old  line,  and 
I  want  you  for  my  wife,  Mary !  With  you  I  can  do  some- 
thing, with  you  I  believe  that  I  can  make  something  of 
my  life !  Without  you — but  there,  if  you  say  no,  I  won't 
take  it!  I  won't  take  it,  and  I  am  going  to  have  you,  if 
not  to-day,  to-morrow,  and  if  not  to-morrow,  the  next  day ! 
Make  no  mistake  about  that !  " 

She  tried  to  fence  with  him.  "  I  have  not  a  penny,"  she 
faltered. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  for  a  penny." 

Her  instinct  was  still  to  escape.  "  You  are  Loro\ 
Audley,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  a  poor  relation.  Won't  you 
— don't  you  think  that  you  will  repent  presently !  " 

"  That's  my  business !  If  that  be  all — if  there's  no  one 
else " 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  217 

"  No,  there's  no  one  else,"  she  admitted.    "  But " 

"  But  be  hanged !  "  he  cried.  "  If  there's  no  one  else  you 
are  mine."  And  he  passed  his  arm  round  her. 

For  a  moment  she  stepped  back.  "  No !  "  she  protested, 
raising  her  hands  to  push  him  off.  "  Please — please  let 
me  think." 

He  let  her  be,  for  already  he  knew  that  he  had  won;  and 
perhaps  in  his  own  mind  he  was  beginning  to  doubt  the 
wisdom  of  the  step.  "  My  uncle  ?  Have  you  thought  of 
him  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What  will  he  say  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  of  him,"  he  cried  grandly,  "  and  I 
am  not  going  to  think  of  him.  I  am  thinking,  my  dear, 
only  of  you.  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

She  stood  silent,  gazing  at  him. 

"  Don't  play  with  me ! "  he  said.  "  I've  a  right  to  an 
answer." 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  said  softly.  "Yes— I  think— no, 
wait;  that  is  not  all/' 

"  It  is  all." 

"No,"  between  laughing  and  crying.  "You  are  not 
giving  me  time.  I  want  to  think.  You  are  carrying  me 
by  storm,  sir." 

"  And  a  good  way,  too ! "  he  rejoined.  Then  she  did  let 
him  take  her,  and  for  a  few  seconds  she  was  in  his  arms. 
He  crushed  her  to  him,  she  felt  all  the  world  turning. 
But  before  he  found  her  lips,  the  crack  of  a  whip  startled 
them,  the  creak  of  a  wheel  sliding  round  the  corner  warned 
them,  she  slipped  from  his  arms. 

"  You  little  wretch !  "  he  said. 

Breathless,  hardly  knowing  what  she  felt,  or  what  storm 
shook  her,  she  could  not  speak.  The  wagon  came  creaking 
past  them,  the  driver  clinging  to  the  chain  of  the  slipper. 
When  it  was  gone  by  she  found  her  voice.  "  It  shall  be 
as  you  will,"  she  said,  and  her  tone  thrilled  him.  "  But 
I  want  to  think.  It  has  been  so  sudden,  I  am  frightened. 
I  am  frightened,  and — yes,  I  think  I  am  happy.  But  please 


218  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

to  let  me  go  now.  I  am  safe  here — in  two  minutes  I  shall 
be  at  home." 

He  tried  to  keep  her,  but  "Let  me  go  now,"  she 
pleaded.  "Later  it  shall  be  as  you  wish — always  as  you 
wish.  But  let  me  go  now." 

He  gave  way  then.  He  said  a  few  words  while  he  held 
her  hands,  and  he  said  them  very  well.  Then  he  let  her  go. 
Before  the  dusk  hid  her  she  turned  and  waved  her  hand, 
and  he  waved  his.  He  stood,  listening.  He  heard  the 
sound  of  her  footsteps  grow  fainter  and  fainter  as  she 
climbed  the  hill,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  rustle  of  the 
wind  through  the  undergrowth.  At  last  he  turned  and 
trudged  down  the  hill. 

"  Well,  I've  done  it,"  he  muttered  presently.  "  And 
Uncle  John  may  find  what  he  likes,  damn  him !  After 
all,  she's  handsome  enough  to  turn  any  man's  head,  and  it 
makes  me  safe!  But  I'll  go  slow.  I'll  go  slow  now. 
There's  no  hurry." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BLORE   UNDER   WEAVER 

GRATITUDE  and  liking,  and  the  worship  of  strength  which 
is  as  natural  in  a  woman  as  the  worship  of  beauty  in  a 
man,  form  no  bad  imitation  of  love,  and  often  pass  into 
love  as  imperceptibly  as  the  brook  becomes  a  river.  The 
morning  light  brought  Mary  no  repentance.  Misgivings 
she  had,  as  what  lover  has  not,  were  the  truth  told.  Was 
her  love  as  perfect  as  Etruria's,  as  unselfish,  as  absorbing? 
She  doubted.  But  in  all  honesty  she  hoped  that  it  might 
become  so;  and  when  she  dwelt  on  the  man  who  had  done 
so  much  for  her,  and  thought  so  well  for  her,  who  had 
so  much  to  offer  and  made  so  little  of  the  offering,  her 
heart  swelled  with  gratitude,  and  if  she  did  not  love  she 
fancied  that  she  did. 

So  much  was  changed  for  her !  She  had  wondered  more 
than  once  what  would  happen  to  her,  if  her  uncle  died. 
That  fear  was  put  from  her.  Toft — she  had  been  vexed 
with  Toft.  How  small  a  matter  that  seemed  now!  And 
Peter  Basset?  He  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  a  pang  did 
pierce  her  heart  on  his  account.  But  he  had  recovered  very 
quickly,  she  reflected.  He  had  shown  himself  cold  enough 
and  distant  enough  at  his  last  visit!  And  then  she  smiled 
as  she  thought  how  differently  her  new  lover  had  assailed 
her,  with  what  force,  what  arrogance,  what  insistence — 
and  yet  with  a  force  and  arrogance  and  insistence  to  which 
it  was  pleasant  to  yield. 

She  did  not  with  all  this  forget  that  she  would  be  Lady 
Audley,  she,  whose  past  had  been  so  precarious,  whose 
prospects  had  been  so  dark,  whose  fate  it  might  have  been 


220  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

to  travel  through  life  aa  obscure  teacher!  She  had  not 
been  woman  if  she  had  not  thought  of  this ;  nor  if  she  had 
failed,  when  she  thought  of  it,  to  breathe  a  prayer  for  the 
gallant  lover  who  had  found  her  and  saved  her,  and  had 
held  it  enough  that  she  was  an  Audley.  He  might  have 
chosen  far  and  wide.  He  had  chosen  her. 

No  wonder  that  Mrs.  Toft  saw  a  change  in  her.  "  Law, 
Miss,"  she  remarked,  when  she  came  in  to  remove  the 
breakfast.  "  One  would  think  a  ten-mile  walk  was  the 
making  of  you!  It's  put  a  color  into  your  cheeks  that 
would  shame  a  June  rose !  And  to  be  sure,"  with  a  glance 
at  the  young  lady's  plate,  "  not  much  eaten  either !  " 

"  I  am  not  hungry,  Mrs.  Toft,"  Mary  said  meekly.  "  I 
drove  back  to  the  foot  of  the  hill." 

"  And  I'd  like  to  sort  Toft  for  it !  It's  he  who  should 
have  gone!  He's  upstairs  now,  keeping  out  of  my  way, 
and  that  grim  and  gray  you'd  think  he'd  seen  a  ghost! 
And  'Truria,  silly  girl,  she's  all  of  a  quiver  this  morning. 
It's  '  Mother,  let  me  do  this ! '  and  '  Mother,  I'll  do  that ! ' 
all  because  her  reverend — not,  as  I  tell  her,  that  aught  will 
ever  come  of  it — has  got  a  roof  over  his  head  at  last." 

"But  that's  good  news!  Has  Mr.  Colet  got  some 
work?" 

"  Not  he,  the  silly  man !  Nor  likely !  There's  mighty 
little  work  for  them  as  go  against  the  gentry.  For  what 
he's  got  he's  to  thank  Mr.  Basset." 

"  Mr.  Basset." 

"  To  be  sure,"  Mrs.  Toft  answered,  with  a  covert  glance 
at  the  girl,  "  why  not,  Miss?  Some  talk  and  the  wind  goes 
by.  There's  plenty  of  those.  And  some  say  naught  but 
do— and  that's  Mr.  Basset.  He's  took  in  Mr.  Colet  till  he 
can  find  a  church.  Etruria's  that  up  about  it,  I  tell  her, 
smile  before  breakfast  and  sweat  before  night.  And  so 
she'll  find  it,  I  warrant !  " 

"  It  is  very  good  of  Mr.  Basset,"  Mary  said  gravely. 
And  then,  "  Is  that  some  one  knocking,  Mrs.  Toft  ?  " 


BLORE  UNDER  WEAVER  221 

"It's  well  to  have  young  ears!"  Mrs.  Toft  took  out 
the  tray,  and  returned  with  a  letter.  "  It's  for  you,  Miss," 
she  said.  "  The  postman's  late  this  morning,  but  cheap'a 
a  slow  traveller.  When  a  letter  was  a  letter  and  cost 
ninepence  it  came  to  hand  like  a  gentleman ! " 

Mary  waited  to  hear  no  more.  She  knew  the  hand- 
writing, and  as  quickly  as  she  could  she  escaped  from  the 
room.  No  one  with  any  claim  to  taste  used  an  envelope  in 
those  days,  and  to  open  a  letter  so  that  no  rent  might  mar 
its  fairness  called  for  a  care  which  she  could  not  exercise 
in  public. 

Alone,  in  her  room,  she  opened  it,  and  her  eyes  grew 
serious  as  they  travelled  down  the  page,  which  bore  signs 
of  haste. 

"  Sweetheart,"  it  began,  and  she  thought  that  charming, 
"  I  do  not  ask  if  you  reached  the  Gatehouse  safely,  for  I 
listened  and  I  must  have  heard,  if  harm  befel  you.  I  drove 
home  as  happy  as  a  king,  and  grieved  only  that  I  had  not 
had  that  of  you  which  I  had  a  right  to  have — damn  that 
carter!  This  troubles  me  the  more  as  I  shall  not  see  you 
again  for  a  time,  and  if  this  does  not  disappoint  you  too, 
you're  a  deceiver!  My  plans  are  altered  by  to-day's  news 
that  Peel  returns  to  office.  In  any  event,  [  had  to  go  to 
Seabourne's  for  Christmas,  now  I  must  be  there  for  a 
meeting  to-morrow  and  go  from  there  to  London  on  the 
same  business.  You  would  not  have  me  desert  my  post, 
I  am  sure?  Heaven  knows  how  long  I  may  be  kept,  pos- 
sibly a  fortnight,  possibly  more.  But  the  moment  I  can  I 
shall  be  with  you. 

"  Write  to  me  at  the  Brunswick  Hotel,  Dover  Street. 
Sweetheart,  I  am  yours,  as  you,  my  darling,  are 

"  PHILIP'S. 

"  P.S. — I  must  put  off  any  communication  to  your  uncle 
till  I  can  see  him.  So  for  the  moment,  mum !  " 

Mary  read  the  letter  twice;  the  first  time  with  eager  eyes, 
the  second  time  more  calmly.  Nothing  was  more  naturaJ, 


222  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

she  told  herself,  than  that  her  spirits  should  sink — Philip 
was  gone.  The  walk  with  him,  the  talk  which  was  to  bring 
them  nearer,  and  to  make  them  better  known  to  one 
another,  stood  over.  The  day  that  was  to  be  so  bright  was 
clouded. 

But  beyond  this  the  letter  itself  fell  a  little,  a  very  little, 
short  of  her  expectations.  The  beginning  was  charming! 
But  after  that — was  it  her  fancy,  or  was  her  lover's  tone 
a  little  flippant,  a  little  free,  a  little  too  easy?  Did  it 
lack  that  tender  note  of  reassurance,  that  chivalrous 
thought  for  her,  which  she  had  a  right  to  expect  in  a  first 
letter?  She  was  not  sure. 

And  as  to  her  uncle.  She  must,  of  course,  be  guided  by 
her  lover,  his  will  must  be  her  law  now;  and  it  was 
reasonable  that  in  John  Audley's  state  of  health  the  mode 
of  communication  should  be  carefully  weighed.  But  she 
longed  to  be  candid,  she  longed  to  be  open ;  and  in  regard 
to  one  person  she  would  be  open.  Basset  had  let  her  see 
that  her  treatment  had  cured  him.  At  their  last  meeting 
he  had  been  cold,  almost  unkind;  he  had  left  her  to  deal 
with  Toft  as  she  could.  Still  she  owed  him,  if  any  one, 
the  truth,  and,  were  it  only  to  set  herself  right  in  her  own 
eyes,  she  must  tell  him.  If  the  news  did  nothing  else 
it  would  open  the  way  for  his  return  to  the  Gatehouse,  and 
the  telling  would  enable  her  to  make  the  amende. 

The  letter  was  not  written  on  that  day  nor  the  next. 
But  on  the  fourth  day  after  Audley's  departure  it  arrived 
at  Blore,  and  lay  for  an  hour  on  the  dusty  hall  table  amid 
spuds  and  powder-flasks  and  old  itineraries.  There  Mr. 
Colet  found  it  and  another  letter,  and  removed  the  two  for 
safety  to  the  parlor,  where  litter  of  a  similar  kind  struggled 
for  the  upper  hand  with  piles  of  books  and  dog's-eared 
Quarterlies.  The  decay  of  the  Bassets  dated  farther  back 
than  the  decline  of  the  Audleys,  and  the  gabled  house  under 
the  shadow  of  Weaver  was  little  better,  if  something  larger, 
than  a  farm-house.  There  had  been  a  library,  but  Basset 


BLORE  UNDER  WEAVER  223 

had  taken  the  best  books  to  the  Gatehouse.  And  there 
were  in  the  closed  drawing-room,  and  in  some  of  the  bed- 
rooms, old  family  portraits,  bad  for  the  most  part;  the 
best  lay  in  marble  in  Blore  Church.  But  in  the  parlor, 
which  was  the  living-room,  hung  only  paintings  of  fat 
oxen  and  prize  sheep;  and  the  garden  which  ran  up  to 
the  walls  of  the  house,  and  in  summer  was  a  flood  of  color, 
lay  in  these  days  dank  and  lifeless,  ebbing  away  from  bee- 
skips  and  chicken-coops.  The  park  had  been  ploughed 
during  the  great  war,  and  now  pined  in  thin  pasture.  The 
whole  of  the  valley  was  still  Basset  land,  but  undrained 
in  the  bottom  and  light  on  the  slopes,  it  made  no  figure  in 
a  rent-roll.  The  present  owner  had  husbanded  the  place, 
and  paid  off  charges,  and  cleared  the  estate,  but  he  had 
been  able  to  do  no  more.  The  place  was  a  poor  man's  place, 
though  for  miles  round  men  spoke  to  the  owner  bareheaded. 
He  was  "  Basset  of  Blore,"  as  much  a  part  of  Staffordshire 
as  Burton  Bridge  or  the  Barbeacon.  The  memories  of  the 
illiterate  are  long. 

He  had  been  walking  the  hill  that  morning  with  a  dog 
and  a  gun,  and  between  yearnings  for  the  woman  he  loved, 
and  longings  for  some  plan  of  life,  some  object,  some 
aim,  he  was  in  a  most  unhappy  mood.  At  one  moment 
he  saw  himself  growing  old,  without  the  energy  to  help 
himself  or  others,  still  toying  with  trifles,  the  last  and 
feeblest  of  his  blood.  At  another  he  thought  of  Mary, 
and  saw  her  smiling  through  the  flowering  hawthorn,  or 
bending  over  a  book  with  the  firelight  on  her  hair.  Or 
again,  stung  by  the  lash  of  her  reproaches  he  tried  to 
harden  himself  to  do  something.  Should  he  take  the  land 
into  his  own  hands,  and  drain  and  fence  and  breed  stock 
and  be  of  use,  were  it  only  as  a  struggling  farmer  in  his 
own  district?  Or  should  he  make  that  plunge  into  public 
life  to  which  Colonel  Mottisfont  had  urged  him  and  from 
which  he  shrank  as  a  shivering  man  shrinks  from  an  icy 
bath? 


824  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

For  there  was  the  rub.  Mary  was  right.  He  was  a 
dreamer,  a  weakling,  one  in  whom  the  strong  pulse  that 
had  borne  his  forbears  to  the  front  beat  but  feebly.  He 
was  not  equal  to  the  hard  facts  of  life.  With  what  ease  had 
Audley,  whenever  they  had  stood  foot  to  foot,  put  him 
in  the  second  place,  got  the  better  of  him,  outshone 
him! 

Old  Don  pointed  in  vain.  His  master  shot  nothing,  for 
he  walked  for  the  most  part  with  his  eyes  on  the  turf. 
If  he  raised  them  it  was  to  gaze  at  the  hamlet  lying  below 
him  in  the  valley,  the  old  house,  the  ring  of  buildings  and 
cottages,  the  church  that  he  loved — and  that  like  the 
woman  he  loved,  reproached  him  with  his  inaction. 

About  two  o'clock  he  turned  homewards.  How  many 
more  days  would  he  will  and  not  will,  and  end  night  by 
night  where  he  had  begun?  In  the  main  he  was  of  even 
temper,  but  of  late  small  things  tried  him,  and  when  he 
entered  the  parlor  and  Colet  rose  at  his  entrance,  he  could 
not  check  his  irritation. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  man,  sit  still !  "  he  cried.  "  And 
don't  get  up  every  time  I  come  in !  And  don't  look  at 
me  like  a  dog !  And  don't  ask  me  if  I  want  the  book  you 
are  reading ! " 

The  curate  stared,  and  muttered  an  apology.  It  was 
true  that  he  did  not  wear  the  chain  of  obligation  with 
grace. 

"  No,  it  is  I  who  am  sorry ! "  Basset  replied,  quickly 
repenting.  "  I  am  a  churlish  ass !  Get  up  when  you  like, 
and  say  what  you  like !  But  if  you  can,  make  yourself  at 
home ! " 

Then  he  saw  the  two  letters  lying  on  the  table.  He 
knew  Mary's  writing  at  a  glance,  and  he  let  it  lie,  his  face 
twitching.  He  took  up  the  other,  made  as  if  he  would 
open  it,  then  he  threw  it  back  again,  and  took  Mary's  to  the 
window,  where  he  could  read  it  unwatched. 

It  was  short. 


BLORE  UNDER  WEAVER  225 

"DEAR  MR.  BASSET,"  she  wrote,  "I  should  be  paying 
you  a  poor  compliment  if  I  pretended  that  what  I  am 
writing  will  not  pain  you.  But  I  hope,  and  since  our  last 
meeting,  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  that  pain  will  not  be 
lasting. 

"  My  cousin,  Lord  Audley,  has  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
and  I  have  consented.  Nothing  beyond  this  is  fixed,  and 
no  announcement  will  be  made  until  my  uncle  has  re- 
covered his  strength.  But  I  feel  that  I  owe  it  to  you  to 
let  you  know  this  at  once. 

"  I  owe  you  something  more.  You  crowned  your  kind- 
ness by  doing  me  a  great  honor.  I  could  not  reply  in  sub- 
stance otherwise  than  I  did,  but  for  the  foolish  criticisms 
of  an  inexperienced  girl,  I  ask  you  to  believe  that  I  feel 
deep  regret. 

"  When  we  meet  I  hope  that  we  may  meet  as  friends.  If 
I  can  believe  this  it  will  add  something  to  the  happiness 
of  my  engagement.  My  uncle  is  better,  but  little  stronger 
than  when  you  saw  him. 

"  I  am,  truly  yours, 

"  MARY  AUDLEY." 

He  stood  looking  at  it  for  a  long  time,  and  only  by  an 
effort  could  he  control  the  emotion  that  strove  to  master 
him.  Then  his  thought}  travelled  to  the  other,  the  man 
who  had  won  her,  the  man  who  had  got  the  better  of  him 
from  the  first,  who  had  played  the  Jacob  from  the  moment 
of  their  meeting  on  the  steamer ;  and  a  passion  of  jealousy 
swept  him  away.  He  swore  aloud. 

Mr.  Colet  leapt  in  his  chair.  "Mr.  Basset!"  he  cried. 
And  then,  in  a  different  tone,  "You  have  bad  news,  I 
fear?" 

The  other  laughed  bitterly.  "Bad  news?"  he  repeated, 
and  Colet  saw  that  his  face  was  white  and  that  the  letter 
shook  in  his  hand.  "  The  Government's  out,  and  that's 
bad  news.  The  pig's  ill,  and  that's  bad  news.  Your 
mother's  dead,  and  that's  bad  news !  " 

"  Swearing  makes  no  news  better/'  Colet  said  mildly. 


226  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"Not  even  the  pig?  If  your — if  Etruria  died,  and 
some  one  told  you  that  she  was  dead,  you  wouldn't  swear? 
You  wouldn't  curse  God  ?  " 

"  God  forbid !  "  the  clergyman  cried  in  horror. 

"  What  would  you  do  then  ?  " 

"  Try  so  to  live,  Mr.  Basset,  that  we  might  meet 
again !  " 

"  Rubbish,  man !  "  Basset  retorted  rudely.  "  Try  in- 
stead not  to  be  a  prig !  " 

"If  I  could  be  of  use? » 

"  You  cannot,  nor  any  one  else,"  Basset  answered. 
"  There,  say  no  more.  The  worst  is  over.  We've  played 
our  little  part  and — what's  the  odds  how  we  played  it?" 

"  Much  when  the  curtain  falls,"  the  poor  clergyman 
ventured. 

"Well,  I'll  go  and  eat  something.  Hunger  is  one  more 
grief !  "  And  Basset  went  out. 

He  came  back  ten  minutes  later,  pale  but  quiet.  "  Sorry, 
Colet,"  he  said.  "  Very  rude,  I  am  afraid !  I  had  bad 
news,  but  I  am  right  now.  Wasn't  there  another  letter 
forme?" 

He  found  the  letter  and  read  it  listlessly.  He  tossed  it 
across  the  table  to  his  guest.  "  News  is  plentiful  to-day," 
he  said. 

Colet  took  the  letter  and  read  it.  It  was  from  a  Mr. 
Hatton,  better  known  to  him  than  to  Basset,  and  the  owner 
of  one  of  the  two  small  factories  in  Riddsley.  It  was  an 
invitation  to  contest  the  borough  in  opposition  to  young 
Mottisfont. 

"  If  it  were  a  question,  respected  sir,"  Hatton  wrote,  "  of 
Whigs  and  Tories  we  should  not  approach  you.  But  as  the 
result  must  depend  upon  the  proportions  in  which  the  Tory 
party  splits  for  and  against  Sir  Robert  Peel  upon  the 
Corn  Laws,  we,  who  are  in  favor  of  repeal,  recognize  the 
advantage  of  being  represented  by  a  moderate  Tory.  The 


BLORE  UNDER  WEAVER  227 

adherence  to  Sir  Robert  of  Sir  James  Graham  in  the  North 
and  of  Lord  Lincoln  in  the  Midlands  proves  that  there  are 
landowners  who  place  their  country  before  their  rents,  and 
it  is  in  the  hope  that  you,  sir,  are  of  the  number  that  we 
invite  you  to  give  us  that  assistance  which  your  ancient 
name  must  afford. 

"  We  are  empowered  to  promise  you  the  support  of  the 
Whig  party  in  the  borough,  conditioned  only  upon  your 
support  of  the  repeal  of  the  Corn  Laws,  leaving  you  free  on 
other  points.  The  Audley  influence  has  been  hitherto  para- 
mount, but  we  believe  that  the  time  has  come  to  free  the 
borough  from  the  last  remnant  of  the  Feudal  system. 

"  A  deputation  will  wait  upon  you  to  give  you  such  assur- 
ances as  you  may  desire.  But  as  Parliament  meets  on  an 
early  date,  and  the  present  member  may  at  once  apply  for 
the  Chiltern  Hundreds,  we  shall  be  glad  to  have  your 
answer  before  the  New  Year." 

"  Well  ?  "  Basset  asked.    "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  It  opens  a  wide  door." 

"  If  you  wish  to  have  your  finger  pinched,"  Basset 
replied,  flippantly,  "  it  does.  I  don't  know  that  it  is  an 
opening  to  anything  else."  And  as  Colet  refrained  from 
speaking,  "  You  don't  think,"  he  went  on,  "  that  it's  a 
way  into  Parliament?  A  repealer  has  as  much  chance  of 
getting  in  for  Eiddsley  against  the  Audley  interest  as  you 
have  of  being  an  archdeacon !  Of  course  the  Radicals  want 
a  fight  if  they  can  find  a  man  fool  enough  to  spend  his 
money.  But  as  for  winning,  they  don't  dream  of  it." 

"It  is  better  to  lose  in  some  causes  than  to  win  in 
others." 

Basset  laughed.  "  Do  you  know  why  they  have  come  to 
me?  They  think  that  I  shall  carry  John  Audley  with  me 
and  divide  the  Audley  interest.  There's  nothing  in  it,  but 
that's  the  notion." 

"  Why  look  at  the  seamy  side  ?  "  Colet  objected.  "  I 
suppose  there  always  is  one,  but  I  don't  think  that  it  was 
at  that  side  Sir  Robert  looked  when  he  made  up  his  mind 


228  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

to  put  the  country  first  and  his  party  second!  I  don't 
think  that  it  was  at  that  side  he  looked  when  he  deter- 
mined to  eat  his  words  and  pocket  his  pride,  rather  than  be 
responsible  for  famine  in  Ireland!  Believe  me,  Mr. 
Basset,"  the  clergyman  continued  earnestly,  "  it  was  no  easy 
change  of  opinion.  Before  he  came  to  that  resolution, 
proud,  cold  man  as  I  am  told  he  is,  many  a  sight  and  sound 
must  have  knocked  at  the  door  of  his  mind;  a  scene  of 
poverty  he  passed  in  his  carriage,  a  passage  in  some  report, 
a  speech  through  which  he  seemed  to  sleep,  a  begging  letter 
— one  by  one  they  pressed  the  door  inwards,  till  at  last, 
with — it  may  be  with  misery,  he  came  to  see  what  he  must 
do!" 

"  Possibly." 

"  The  call  came,  he  had  to  answer  it.  Here  is  a  call  to 
you." 

"And  do  you  think,"  the  other  retorted,  "that  I  can 
answer  it  more  cheaply  than  Sir  Eobert?  So  far  as  I 
have  thought  it  out,  I  am  with  him.  But  do  you  think 
I  could  do  this,"  he  tapped  the  letter,  "  without  misery — 
of  a  different  kind  it  may  be?  I  am  not  a  public  man,  I 
have  served  no  apprenticeship  to  it,  I've  not  addressed  a 
meeting  three  times  in  my  life,  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
say  or  how  I  should  say  it.  And  for  Hatton  and  his 
friends,  they  would  rub  me  up  a  dozen  times  a  day." 

"  Non  sine  pulvere!  "  Mr.  Colet  murmured. 

"  Dust  enough  there'll  be !  I  don't  doubt  that.  And 
dirt.  But  there's  another  thing."  He  paused,  and  turning, 
knocked  the  fire  together.  He  was  nearly  a  minute  about 
it,  while  the  other  waited.  "  There's  another  thing,"  he 
repeated.  "  I  am  not  going  into  this  business  to  pay  out  a 
private  grudge,  and  I  want  to  be  clear  that  I  am  not  doing 
that.  And  I'm  not  going  into  this  simply  for  what  I  can 
get  out  of  it.  Ambition  is  a  poor  stayer  with  me,  a  washy 
chestnut.  It  would  not  carry  me  through,  Colet.  If  I 
go  into  this,  it  will  be  because  I  believe  in  it.  It  seems  as 


BLORE  UNDER  WEAVER  229 

if  I  were  preaching,"  he  continued  awkwardly.  "  But 
there's  nothing  but  belief  will  carry  me  through,  and  unless 
I  am  clear — I'll  not  start.  I'll  not  start,  although  I  want 
to  make  a  fresh  start  badly!  Devilish  badly,  if  you'll 
excuse  me ! " 

"  And  how  will  you " 

"  Make  certain  ?  I  don't  know.  I  must  fight  it  out  by 
myself — go  up  on  the  hill  and  think  it  out.  I  must  be- 
lieve in  the  thing,  or  I  must  leave  it  alone !  " 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Colet.  And  prudent  for  once  he 
said  no  more. 


CHAPTEB  XXIV 

AN  AGENT   OF  THE  OLD   SCHOOL 

IT  is  dcubtful  if  even  the  great  Keform  Bill  of  '32,  which 
shifted  the  base  of  power  from  the  upper  to  the  middle 
class,  awoke  more  bitter  feelings  that  did  the  volte  face  of 
Peel  in  the  winter  of  '45.  Since  the  days  of  Pitt  no  states- 
man had  enjoyed  the  popularity  or  wielded  the  power  which 
had  been  Sir  Robert's  when  he  had  taken  office  four  years 
before.  He  had  been  more  than  the  leader  of  the  Tory 
party ;  he  had  been  its  re-creator.  He  had  been  more  than 
the  leader  of  the  landed  interest;  he  had  been  its  pride. 
Men  who  believed  that  upon  the  welfare  of  that  interest 
rested  the  stability  of  the  constitution,  men  with  historic 
names  had  walked  on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  left,  had 
borne  his  train  and  carried  his  messages.  All  things,  his 
origin,  his  formality,  his  pride,  his  quiet  domestic  life,  even 
his  moderation,  had  been  forgiven  in  the  man  who  had 
guided  the  Tories  through  the  bad  days,  had  led  them  at 
last  to  power,  and  still  stood  between  them  and  the  mutter- 
ings  of  this  new  industrial  England,  that  hydra-like  threat- 
ened and  perplexed  them. 

And  then — he  had  betrayed  them.  Suddenly,  some  held; 
in  a  panic,  scared  by  God  knows  what  bugbear!  Coldly 
and  deliberately,  said  others,  spreading  his  treachery  over 
years,  laughing  in  his  sleeve  as  he  led  them  to  the  fatal 
edge.  Those  who  took  the  former  view  made  faint  excuse 
for  him,  and  perhaps  still  clung  to  him.  Those  who  held 
the  latter  thought  no  price  too  high,  no  sacrifice  too  costly, 
no  effort  too  great,  if  they  could  but  punish  the  traitor! 
If  they  could  but  pillory  him  for  all  to  see. 

230 


AN  AGENT  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL  231 

So,  in  a  moment,  in  the  autumn  of  '45,  as  one  drop  of 
poison  will  cloud  the  fairest  water,  the  face  of  public  life 
was  changed.  Bitterness  was  infused  into  it,  friend  was 
parted  from  friend  and  son  from  father,  the  oldest  alliances 
were  dissolved.  Men  stood  gaping,  at  a  loss  whither  to  turn 
and  whom  to  trust.  Many  who  had  never  in  all  their  lives 
made  up  their  own  minds  were  forced  to  have  an  opinion 
and  choose  a  side;  and  as  that  process  is  to  some  men  as 
painful  as  a  labor  to  a  woman,  the  effect  was  to  embitter 
things  farther.  How  could  one  who  for  years  past  had 
cursed  Cobden  in  all  companies,  and  in  moments  of  relaxa- 
tion had  drunk  to  a  "  Bloody  War  and  a  Wet  Harvest," 
turn  round  and  join  the  Manchester  School?  It  could  be 
done,  it  was  done,  but  with  what  a  rending  of  bleeding 
sinews  only  the  sufferers  knew ! 

Strange  to  say,  few  gave  weight  to  Sir  Robert's  plea  of 
famine  in  Ireland.  Still  more  strange,  when  events  bore 
out  his  alarm,  when  in  the  course  of  a  year  or  two  a  quarter 
of  a  million  in  that  unhappy  country  died  of  want,  public 
feeling  changed  little.  Those  who  had  remained  with 
him,  stood  with  him  still.  Those  who  had  banded  them- 
selves against  him,  held  their  ground.  Only  a  handful 
allowed  that  he  was  honest,  after  all.  Nor  was  it  until  he, 
who  rode  his  horse  like  a  sack,  had  died  like  a  demi-god, 
with  a  city  hanging  on  his  breath,  and  weeping  women  fill- 
ing all  the  streets  about  the  house,  that  the  traitor  became 
the  patriot. 

But  this  is  to  anticipate.  In  December  of  '45,  few  men 
believed  in  famine.  Few  thought  much  of  dearth.  The 
world  was  angry,  blood  was  hot,  many  dreamt  of  venge- 
ance. Meantime  Manchester  exulted,  and  Coal,  Iron, 
Cotton  toasted  Peel.  But  even  they  marvelled  that  the  man 
who  had  been  chosen  to  support  the  Corn  Laws  had  the 
courage  to  repeal  them! 

Upon  no  one  in  the  whole  country  did  the  news  fall  with 
more  stunning  effect  than  upon  poor  Stubbs  at  Kicldsley. 


232  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

He  had  suspected  Peel.  He  had  disliked  his  measures,  and 
doubted  whither  he  was  moving.  He  had  even  on  the 
occasion  of  his  resignation  predicted  that  Sir  Robert  would 
support  fhe  repeal ;  but  he  had  not  thought  worse  of  him 
than  that,  and  the  event  left  him  not  uncertain,  nor  under 
any  stress  as  to  making  up  his  mind,  but  naked,  as  it  were, 
in  an  east  wind.  He  felt  older.  He  owned  that  his  gen- 
eration was  passing.  He  numbered  the  friends  he  had  left 
and  found  them  few.  And  though  he  continued  to  assert 
that  no  man  had  ever  pitted  himself  against  the  land  whom 
the  land  had  not  broken,  doubt  began  to  creep  into  his 
mind.  There  were  hours  when  he  foresaw  the  end  of  the 
warm  farming  days,  of  game  and  sport,  of  Horn  and  Corn, 
ay,  and  of  the  old  toast,  "The  farmer's  best  friend — the 
landlord,"  to  which  he  had  replied  at  many  an  audit 
dinner. 

One  thing  remained — the  Eiddsley  election.  He  found 
some  comfort  in  that.  He  drew  some  pleasure  from  the 
thought  that  Sir  Robert  might  do  what  he  pleased  at  Tarn- 
worth,  he  might  do  what  he  pleased  in  the  Cabinet,  in  the 
Commons — there  were  toadies  and  turn-coats  everywhere; 
but  Riddsley  would  have  none  of  him!  Riddsley  would 
remain  faithful!  Stubbs  steeped  himself  in  the  prospect 
of  the  election,  and  in  preparations  for  it.  A  dozen  times 
a  day  he  thanked  his  stars  that  the  elder  Mottisfont's 
weakness  for  Peel  had  provided  this  opening  for  his 
energies. 

Js"ot  that  even  on  this  ground  he  was  quite  happy. 
There  was  a  little  bitter  in  the  cup.  He  hardly  owned  it 
to  himself,  he  did  not  dream  of  whispering  it  to  others,  but 
at  the  bottom  of  his  mind  he  had  ever  so  faint  a  doubt  of 
his  employer.  A  hint  dropped  here,  a  word  there,  a  veiled 
question — he  could  not  say  which  of  these  had  given  him 
the  notion  that  his  lordship  hung  between  two  opinions, 
and  even — no  wonder  that  Stubbs  dared  not  whisper  it  to 
others — was  weighing  which  would  pay  him  best ! 


AN  AGENT  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL  233 

Such  a  thought  was  treason,  however,  and  Stubbs  buried 
it  and  trampled  on  it,  before  he  went  jauntily  into  the  snug 
little  meeting  at  the  Audley  Arms,  which  he  had  summoned 
to  hear  the  old  member's  letter  read  and  to  accept  the  son 
as  a  candidate  in  his  father's  place.  Those  whom  the  agent 
had  called  were  few  and  trusty ;  young  Mottisfont  himself, 
the  rector  and  Dr.  Pepper,  Bagenal  the  maltster,  Hogg 
the  saddler,  Musters  the  landlord,  the  "  Duke  "  from  the 
Leasows  (which  was  within  the  borough),  and  two  other 
tradesmen.  Stubbs  had  no  liking  for  big  meetings.  He 
had  been  bred  up  to  believe  that  speeches  were  lost  labor, 
and  if  they  must  be  made  should  be  made  at  the  Market 
Ordinary. 

At  such  a  gathering  as  this  he  was  happy.  He  had  the 
strings  in  his  own  hands.  The  work  to  be  done  was  at 
his  fingers'  ends.  At  this  table  he  was  as  great  a  man  as 
my  lord.  With  young  Mottisfont,  who  was  by  way  of 
being  a  Bond  Street  dandy,  solemn,  taciturn,  and  without 
an  opinion  of  his  own,  he  was  not  likely  to  have  trouble. 
The  rector  was  enthusiastic  but  indolent,  Pepper  an  old 
friend.  The  rest  were  Stubbs's  most  obedient. 

Stubbs  read  the  retiring  member's  letter,  and  introduced 
the  candidate.  The  rector  boomed  through  a  few  phrases 
of  approbation,  Dr.  Pepper  seconded,  the  rest  cried  "  Hear ! 
hear !  " 

"  There's  little  to  say/'  gtubbs  went  on.  "  I  take  it  that 
we  are  all  of  one  mind,  gentlemen,  to  return  Mr.  Mottis- 
font in  his  father's  place?" 

"  Hear !  hear !  "  from  all. 

"In  the  old  interest?"  Stubbs  went  on,  looking  round 
the  table.  "  And  on  the  clear  understanding  that  Mr. 
Mottisfont  is  returned  to  oppose  any  tampering  with  the 
protection  of  agriculture." 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Mr.  Mottisfont. 

"I  will  see  that  that  is  embodied  in  Mr.  Mottisfonfs 


234  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

address,"  Stubbs  continued.  "  There  must  be  no  mistake. 
These  are  queer  times " 

"  Sad  times ! "  said  the  rector,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Terrible  times ! "  said  the  maltster,  shaking  his. 

"  Never  did  I  dream  I  should  live  to  see  'em,"  said  old 
Hayward.  "  'Tisn't  a  month  since  a  chap  came  on  my 
land,  ay,  up  to  my  very  door,  and  said  things — I'll  be 
damned  if  I  did  not  think  he'd  turn  the  cream  sour !  And 
when  I  cried  '  Sam !  fetch  a  pitchfork  and  rid  me  of  this 
rubbish ' " 

"  I  know,  Hayward,"  Stubbs  said,  cutting  him  short. 
"  I  know.  You  told  me  about  it.  You  did  very  well.  But 
to  business.  It  shall  be  a  short  address — just  that  one 
point.  We  are  all  agreed,  I  think,  gentlemen?  " 

All  were  agreed. 

"  I'll  see  that  it  is  printed  in  good  time,"  Stubbs  con- 
tinued. "  I  don't  think  that  we  need  trouble  you  further, 
Mr.  Mottisfont.  There's  a  fat-stock  sale  this  day  fortnight. 
Perhaps  you'll  dine  and  say  a  few  words?  I'll  let  you  know 
if  it  is  necessary.  There'll  be  no  opposition.  Hatton  will 
have  a  meeting  at  the  Institute,  but  nothing  will  come 
of  it." 

"  That's  all  then,  is  it?  "  said  the  London  man,  sticking 
his  glass  in  his  eye  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  That's  all,"  Stubbs  replied.  "  If  you  can  attend  this 
day  fortnight  so  much  the  better.  The  farmers  like  it,  and 
they've  fourteen  votes  in  the  borough.  Thank  you,  gentle- 
men, that's  all." 

"  I  think  3'ou've  forgotten  one  thing,  Mr.  Stubbs,"  said 
old  Hayward,  with  a  twinkle. 

"  To  be  sure,  I  have.  Ring  the  bell,  Musters,  and  send 
up  the  two  bottles  of  your  '20  port  that  I  ordered  and  some 
glasses.  A  glass  of  Musters'  '20  port,  Mr.  Mottisfont, 
won't  hurt  you  this  cold  day.  And  we  must  drink  your 
health.  And,  Musters,  when  these  gentlemen  go  down,  see 
that  they  have  what  they  call  for." 


AN  AGENT  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL  235 

The  port  was  sipped,  tasted.  Mr.  Mottisfont's  health 
was  drunk,  and  various  compliments  were  paid  to  his 
father.  The  rector  took  his  two  glasses;  so  did  young 
Mottisfont,  who  woke  up  and  vowed  that  he  had  tasted 
none  better  in  St.  James's  Street.  "Is  it  Garland's?" 
he  asked. 

"  It  is,  sir,"  Musters  said,  much  pleased. 

"  I  thought  it  was — none  better !  "  said  young  Mottis- 
font, also  pleased.  "  The  old  Duke  drinks  no  other." 

"  Fine  tipple !  Fine  tipple !  "  said  the  other  "  Duke." 
In  the  end  a  third  bottle  was  ordered,  of  which  Musters 
and  old  Hayward  drank  the  better  part. 

At  one  of  these  meetings  a  sad  thing  had  happened.  A 
rash  tradesman  had  proposed  his  lordship's  health.  .  Of 
course  he  had  been  severely  snubbed.  It  had  been  con- 
sidered most  indecent.  But  on  this  occasion  no  one  was  so 
simple  as  to  name  my  lord,  and  Stubbs  felt  with  satisfac- 
tion that  all  had  passed  as  it  should.  So  had  candidates 
been  chosen  as  long  as  he  could  remember. 

But  call  no  man  happy  until  the  day  closes.  As  he 
left  the  house  Bagenal  the  maltster  tacked  himself  on  to 
him.  "  I'd  a  letter  from  George  this  morning,"  he  said. 
George  was  his  son,  articled  to  Mr.  Stubbs,  and  now  with 
Mr.  Stubbs's  agents  in  town.  "  He  saw  his  lordship  one 
day  last  week." 

"Ay,  ay.  I  suppose  Master  George  was  in  the  West 
End  ?  Wasting  his  time,  Bagenal,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  Young  fellows  like  to  see 
things.  He  went  with  a  lot  of  chaps  to  see  the  crowd  out- 
side Sir  Robert's.  They'd  read  in  a  paper  that  all  the 
nobs  were  to  be  seen  going  in  and  out.  Anyway,  he  went, 
and  the  first  person  he  saw  going  in  was  his  lordship ! " 

Mr.  Stubbs  walked  a  few  yards  in  silence.  Then,  "  Well, 
he's  no  sight  to  George,"  he  said.  "  It  seems  to  me  they 
were  both  wasting  their  time.  I  told  his  lordship  he'd  do 
no  good.  When  half  the  dukes  in  England  have  been  at 


236  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Peel,  d — n  him,  it  wasn't  likely  he'd  change  his  course  for 
his  lordship !  It  wasn't  to  be  expected,  Bagenal.  Did 
George  stop  to  see  him  come  out?  " 

"He  did.  And  in  a  thundering  temper  my  lord 
looked." 

"  Ay,  ay !    Well  I  told  him  how  it  would  be." 

"  They  were  going  in  and  out  like  bees,  George  said." 

"  Ay,  ay." 

They  parted  on  that,  and  the  lawyer  went  into  his  office. 
But  his  face  was  gloomy.  "  Ay,  like  bees !  "  he  muttered. 
"After  the  honey!  I  wonder  what  lie  asked  for!  What- 
ever  it  was  he  couldn't  have  paid  the  price !  I  thought  he 
knew  that.  I've  a  good  mind — but  there,  we've  held  it  so 
long,  grandfather,  father,  and  son — I  can't  afford  to  give 
it  up." 

He  turned  into  his  office,  but  the  day  was  spoiled  for 
him.  And  the  day  was  not  done  yet.  He  had  barely  sat 
down  before  his  clerk  a  thin,  gray-haired  man,  high-nosed, 
with  a  look  of  breeding  run  to  seed,  came  in,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  Farthingale  was  as  well  known  in  Ridds- 
ley  as  the  Maypole ;  gossip  had  it  that  he  was  a  by-blow 
of  an  old  name.  "  I've  heard  something,"  he  said  darkly, 
"  and  the  sooner  you  know  it  the  better.  They've  got  a 
man." 

Stubbs  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "For  repeal  in  Ridds- 
ley  ?  "  he  said.  "  You're  dreaming." 

The  clerk  smiled.  "  "Well,  you'd  best  be  awake,"  he  said. 
He  had  been  long  enough  with  Stubbs  to  take  a  liberty. 
"  Who  do  you  think  it  is?  "  he  continued,  rubbing  his  chin 
with  the  feather-end  of  a  quill. 

"  Some  methodist  parson !  " 

Farthingale  shook  his  head.  "  Guess  again,  sir,"  he  said. 
"  You're  cold  at  present.  It's  a  bird  of  another  feather." 

"  A  pretty  big  fool  whoever  he  is !  " 

"  Mr.  Basset  of  Blore.    I  have  it  on  good  authority." 

Stubbs  stared.    He  was  silent  for  a  time,  thinking  hard. 


237 

"  Somebody's  fooled  you,"  he  said  at  last,  but  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone.  "  He's  never  shown  a  sign  of  coming  out." 

The  clerk  looked  wise.  "  It's  true,"  he  said.  "  It  cost, 
me  four  goes  of  brown  brandy  at  the  Portcullis." 

"  Well,  you  may  score  that  to  me,"  Stubbs  answered. 
"  Basset,  eh  ?  Well,  he's  throwing  his  money  into  the 
gutter  if  it's  true,  and  he  hasn't  much  to  spare.  I  see 
Hatton's  point.  He's  not  the  fool." 

"  No.    He's  an  old  bird  is  Hatton." 

"  But  I  don't  see  where  Squire  Basset  comes  in." 

Farthingale  looked  wiser  than  ever.  "  Well,"  he  said, 
"  he  may  have  a  score  to  pay,  too.  And  if  he  has,  there's 
more  ways  than  one  of  paying  it !  " 

"What  score?" 

"  Ah,  I'm  not  saying  that.  Mr.  John  Audley's  may  be 
— against  his  lordship." 

"  Umph !  If  you  paid  off  yours  at  the  Portcullis," 
Stubbs  retorted,  losing  his  temper,  "  the  landlord  wouldn't 
be  sorry !  Scores  are  a  deal  too  much  in  your  way,  Farthin- 
gale !  "  he  continued,  severely,  forgetting  in  his  annoyance 
the  four  goes  of  brown  brandy.  "  You're  too  much  at 
home  among  'em.  Don't  bring  me  cock-and-bull  stories 
like  this!  I  don't  believe  it.  And  get  to  that  lease!" 

But  sure  enough  Farthingale's  story  proved  to  be  well 
founded,  for  a  week  later  it  was  known  for  certain  in 
Riddsley  that  Mr.  Basset  of  Blore  was  coming  out,  and  that 
there  would  be  a  fight  for  the  borough. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JIARY    IS   LOXELT 

MARY  AUDLEY  was  one  of  the  last  to  hear  the  news. 
Etruria  brought  it  from  the  town  one  day  in  January, 
when  the  evenings  were  beginning  to  lengthen,  and  the  last 
hour  of  daylight  was  the  dreariest  of  the  twenty-four.  It 
had  rained,  and  the  oaks  in  the  park  were  a-drip,  the  thorn 
trees  stood  in  tiny  pools,  the  moorland  lay  stark  under  a 
pall  of  fog.  In  the  vale  the  Trent  was  in  flood,  its  pale 
waters  swirling  past  the  willow-stools,  creeping  over  the 
chilled  meadows,  and  stealing  inch  by  inch  up  the  water?, 
side  lanes.  Etruria's  feet  were  wet,  and  she  was  weary 
with  her  trudge  through  the  mud ;  but  when  Mary  met  her 
on  the  tiny  landing  on  which  their  rooms  opened,  there  was 
a  sparkle  in  the  girl's  eyes  as  bright  as  the  red  petticoat 
that  showed  below  her  tucked-up  gown. 

"You  didn't  forget "  Mary  was  beginning,  and  then, 

"  Why,  Etruria,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  believe  vou  have  seen 
Mr.  Colet?" 

Etruria  blushed  like  the  dawn.  "  Oh  no,  Miss ! "  she 
said.  "  He's  at  Blore." 

"  To  be  sure !    Then  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I've  heard  some  news,  Miss,"  Etruria  said.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  you'll  be  pleased  or  not." 

"But  it  is  certain  that  you  are!"  Mary  replied  with 
conviction.  "  What  is  it?  " 

The  girl  told  what  she  had  heard:  that  there  was  to  be 
an  election  at  Eiddsley  in  three  weeks,  and  not  only  an 
election  but  a  contest,  and  that  the  candidate  who  had 

238 


MARY  IS  LONELY  239 

come  forward  to  oppose  the  Corn  Laws  was  no  other  than 
Mr.  Basset — their  Mr.  Basset!  More,  that  only  the  eve- 
ning before  he  had  held  his  first  meeting  at  the  Institute, 
and  though  he  had  been  interrupted  and  the  meeting  had 
been  broken  up,  his  short  plain  speech  had  made  a  con- 
siderable impression. 

"Indeed,  Miss/'  Etruria  continued,  carried  away  by  the 
subject,  "  there  was  one  told  me  that  when  he  stood  up  to 
speak  she  could  see  his  hand  shake,  and  his  face  was  the 
color  of  a  piece  of  paper.  But  when  they  began  to  boo  and 
shout  at  him,  he  grew  as  cool  as  cool,  and  the  longer  they 
shouted  the  braver  he  was,  until  they  saw  that  if  they  let 
him  go  on  he  would  be  getting  a  hearing!  So  they  put 
out  the  lights  and  stormed  the  platform,  and  there  was  a 
fine  Stafford  row,  I'm  told.  Of  course,"  Etruria  added 
simply,  "  the  drink  was  in  them." 

Mary  hardly  knew  what  her  feelings  were.  "  Mr. 
Basset? "  she  said  at  last.  " I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"  Nor  could  I,  Miss,  when  I  first  heard  it.  But  it  seems 
they  have  known  it  there  for  ten  days  and  more,  and  the 
town  is  agog  with  it,  everybody  taking  sides,  and  some  so 
much  against  him  as  never  was.  It's  dreadful  to  think," 
Etruria  continued,  "  how  misguided  men  can  be.  But  oh, 
Miss,  I'm  thankful  he's  on  the  right  side,  and  for  taking 
the  burden  off  the  bread !  I'm  sure  it  will  be  returned  to 
him,  win  or  lose.  They're  farmers'  friends  here,  and 
they're  saying  shameful  things  of  him  in  the  market!  But 
there's  many  a  woman  will  bless  him,  and  the  lanes  and 
alleys,  they've  no  votes,  but  they'll  pray  for  him !  Some- 
times," Etruria  added  shyly,  "  I  think  it  is  Mr.  Colet 
has  brought  him  to  it." 

"  Mr.  Colet?"  Mary  repeated — she  did  not  know  why  she 
disliked  the  notion.  "  Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"  He's  been  at  Blore,"  Etruria  murmured.  "  Mr.  Basset 
has  been  so  good  to  him." 

"  Mr.  Basset  has  a  mind  of  his  own,"  Mary  answered 


'5>40  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

sharply.  "  He  is  quite  capable  of  forming  his  own 
opinion." 

"  Of  course,  Miss,"  Etruria  said,  abashed.  "  I  should 
have  known  that." 

"  Yes,"  Mary  repeated.  "  But  what  was  it  they  were 
saying  of  Mr.  Basset  in  the  market,  Etruria?  Not  that  it 
matters." 

"Well,  Miss/'  Etruria  explained,  reluctantly.  "They 
were  saying  it  was  some  grudge  Mr.  Basset  or  the  Master 
had  against  his  lordship  that  brought  Mr.  Basset  out." 

"  Against  Lord  Audley?  "  Mary  cried.  And  she  blushed 
suddenly  and  vividly.  "Why?  What  has  he  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  Well,  Miss,  it's  his  lordship's  seat,"  Etruria  answered 
naively ;  "  what  he  wishes  has  always  been  done  in  Ridds- 
ley.  And  he's  for  Mr.  Mottisfont." 

Mary  walked  to  a  window  and  looked  out.  "  Oh,"  she 
said,  "  I  did  not  know  that.  But  you'd  better  go  now, 
Etruria,  and  change  your  shoes.  Your  feet  must  be  wet." 

Etruria  went,  and  Mary  continued  to  gaze  through  the 
window.  What  strange  news!  And  what  a  strange  situa- 
tion !  The  lover  whom  she  had  rejected  and  the  lover  whom 
she  had  taken,  pitted  against  one  another!  And  her  words 
— she  could  hardly  doubt  it — the  spur  which  had  brought 
Basset  to  the  post ! 

So  thinking,  so  pondering,  she  grew  more  and  more  ill 
at  ease.  Her  sympathies  should  have  been  wholly  with  her 
betrothed,  but  they  were  not.  She  should  have  resented 
Basset's  action.  She  did  not.  Instead  she  thought  of  his 
shaking  hand  and  his  pale  face,  and  of  the  courage  that 
had  grown  firmer  in  the  face  of  opposition;  and  she  found 
something  fine  in  that,  something  that  appealed  to  her. 
And  the  cause  he  had  adopted  ?  It  was  the  cause  to  which 
she  naturally  inclined.  She  might  be  wrong,  he  might  be 
wrong.  Lord  Audley  knew  so  much  more  of  these  things 
and  looked  at  them  from  so  enlightened  a  standpoint,  that 


MARY  IS  LOyELY  241 

they  must  be  wrong.  And  yet — her  heart  warmed  to  that 
cause. 

She  turned  from  the  window  in  some  trouble,  wondering 
if  she  were  disloyal,  wondering  why  she  felt  as  she  did; 
wondering  a  little,  too,  why  she  had  lost  the  first  rapture  of 
her  love,  and  was  less  happy  in  it  than  she  had  been. 

True,  she  had  not  seen  her  lover  again,  and  that  might 
account  for  it.  He  had  been  detained  at  Lord  Seabourne's, 
and  in  London;  he  had  been  occupied  for  days  together 
with  the  crisis.  But  she  had  had  three  letters  from  him, 
busy  as  he  was;  three  amusing  letters,  full  of  gossip  and 
sprinkled  with  anecdotes  of  the  great  world.  She  had 
opened  the  first  in  something  of  a  tremor;  but  her  fingers 
had  soon  grown  steady,  and  if  she  had  blushed  it  had 
been  for  her  expectation  of  a  vulgar  love-letter  such  as 
milkmaids  prize.  She  had  been  silly  to  suppose  that  he 
would  write  in  that  strain. 

And  yet  she  had  felt  a  degree  of  disappointment.  He 
might  have  written  with  less  reserve,  she  thought;  he 
might  have  discussed  their  plans  and  hopes,  he  might  have 
let  the  fire  peep  somewhere  through  the  chinks.  But  there, 
again,  what  a  poor  thing  she  was  if  her  love  must  be  fed 
with  sweetmeats.  How  weak  her  trust,  how  poor  her  affec- 
tion, if  she  could  not  bear  a  three  weeks'  parting!  He  had 
come  to  her,  he  had  chosen  her,  what  more  did  she  want? 
Did  she  expect  him  to  put  aside  the  calls  and  the  duties 
of  his  station,  that  he  might  hang  on  her  apron-strings? 

Still,  she  was  not  in  good  spirits,  and  she  felt  her  lone- 
liness. The  house,  this  gray  evening,  with  the  shadows 
gathering  in  the  corners,  weighed  on  her.  Mrs.  Toft  was 
far  away  in  her  cosey  kitchen,  Etruria  also  had  gone 
thither.  Toft  was  with  Mr.  Audley  in  the  other  wing — he 
had  been  much  with  his  master  of  late.  So  Mary  was  alone. 
She  was  not  nervous,  but  she  was  depressed.  The  cold 
stairs,  the  austere  parlor  with  its  dim  portraits,  the  matted 
hall,  the  fireless  library — all  struck  a  chill.  She  remem- 


242  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

bered  other  times  and  other  evenings;  cosey  evenings,  when 
the  glow  of  the  wood-fire  had  vied  with  the  shaded  lights, 
when  the  three  heads  had  bent  over  the  three  tables,  when 
the  rustle  of  turning  pages  had  blended  with  the  snoring 
of  the  old  hound,  when  the  pursuit  of  some  trifle  had  sped 
the  pleasant  hours.  Alas,  those  evenings  were  gone,  as  if 
they  had  never  been.  The  house  was  dull  and  melancholy. 

She  might  have  gone  to  her  uncle,  but  during  the  after- 
noon he  had  told  her  that  he  wished  to  be  alone ;  he  should 
go  to  bed  betimes.  So  about  seven  o'clock  she  took  her 
meal  by  herself,  and  when  it  was  done  she  felt  more  at  a 
loss  than  ever.  Presently  her  thoughts  went  again  to  John 
Audley. 

Had  she  neglected  him  of  late?  Had  she  left  him  too 
much  to  Toft,  and  let  her  secret,  which  she  hated  to  keep 
secret,  come  between  them?  Why  should  she  not,  even 
now,  see  him  before  he  slept?  She  could  take  him  the 
news  of  Mr.  Basset's  enterprise.  It  would  serve  for  an 
excuse. 

Lest  her  courage  should  fail  she  went  at  once,  shivering 
as  she  passed  through  the  shadowy  library,  where  a  small 
lamp,  burning  on  a  table,  did  no  more  than  light  her  to 
the  staircase.  She  ran  up  the  stairs  and  was  groping  for 
the  handle  of  Mr.  Audley's  door  when  the  door  opened 
abruptly  and  Toft  stepped  out,  a  candle  in  his  hand.  She 
was  so  close  to  him  that  he  all  but  touched  her,  and  he 
was,  if  anything,  more  startled  than  she  was.  He  stood 
gaping  at  her. 

Through  the  narrow  opening  she  had  a  glimpse  of  her 
uncle,  who  was  on  his  feet  before  the  fire.  He  was  fully 
dressed. 

That  surprised  her,  for,  even  before  this  last  attack,  he 
had  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  dressing-gown.  Still 
more  surprising  was  Toft's  conduct.  He  shut  the  door  and 
held  it.  "  The  master  is  going  to  bed,  Miss,"  he  said. 

"  I  see  that  he  is  dressed ! "  she  replied.    And  she  looked 


MARY  18  LONELY  243 

dt  Toft  in  such  a  way  that  the  man  gave  way,  took  his  hand 
from  the  door,  and  stood  aside.  She  pushed  the  door  open 
and  went  in.  Her  uncle,  standing  with  his  back  to  her, 
was  huddling  on  his  dressing-gown. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  cried,  his  face  averted.    "  Who  is  it?  " 

"  It  is  only  I,  sir,"  she,  replied.  "  Mary."  She  closed  the 
door. 

"  But  I  thought  I  told  you  that  I  didn't  want  you !  "  he 
retorted  pettishly.  "  I  am  going  to  bed."  He  turned,  hav- 
ing succeeded  in  girding  on  his  dressing-gown.  "  Going  to 
bed,"  he  repeated.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  so?  " 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  she  said,  "  but  I  had  news  for  you. 
News  that  has  surprised  me.  I  thought  that  you  would  like 
to  hear  it." 

He  looked  at  her,  his  furtive  eyes  giving  the  lie  to  his 
plump  face,  which  sagged  more  than  of  old.  "  News,"  he 
muttered,  peevishly.  "  What  news  ?  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
startle  me.  You  ought  to  remember  that — that  excite- 
ment is  bad  for  me.  And  you  come  at  this  time  of  night 
with  news !  What  is  it?  "  He  was  not  looking  at  her.  He 
teemed  to  be  seeking  something.  "  What  is  it?  " 

"  It's  nothing  very  terrible,"  she  answered,  smiling. 
"  Nothing  to  alarm  you,  uncle.  Won't  you  sit  down?  " 

He  looked  about  him  like  a  man  driven  into  a  corner. 
"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  sit  down !  "  he  said.  "  I  ought 
to  be  in  bed !  I  ought  to  be  there  now." 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  keep  you  long,"  she  answered,  trying 
to  humor  his  mood,  while  all  the  time  she  was  wondering 
why  he  was  dressed  at  this  time,  he  whom  she  had  not 
seen  dressed  for  a  fortnight.  And  why  had  Toft  tried  to 
keep  her  out?  "  It  is  only,"  she  continued,  "  that  I  heard 
to-day  that  there  is  to  be  a  contest  at  Riddsley.  And  that 
Mr.  Basset  is  to  be  one  of  the  candidates." 

"  Is  that  all?"  he  said.  "  News,  you  said?  That's  no 
news !  Bigger  fool  he,  unless  he  does  more  for  himself 
than  he  does  for  his  friends!  Peter  the  Hermit  become 


244  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Peter  the  Great!  He'll  soon  find  himself  Peter  the  Piper, 
who  picked  a  peck  of  pepper!  Hot  pepper  he'll  find  it, 
d — n  him !  "  with  sudden  spite.  "  He's  no  better  than  the 
rest !  He's  all  for  himself !  All  for  himself !  "  he  repeated, 
his.  voice  rising  in  his  excitement. 

«  But " 

"  There,  don't  agitate  me!  "  He  wiped  his  brow  with  a 
shaking  hand,  while  his  eyes,  avoiding  hers,  continued  to 
look  about  him  as  if  he  sought  something.  "  I  knew  how 
it  would  be.  You've  no  thought  for  me.  You  don't 
remember  how  weak  I  am!  Hardly  able  to  crawl  across 
the  floor,  to  put  one  foot  before  another.  And  you  come 
chattering!  chattering!" 

She  had  thought  him  odd  before,  but  never  so  odd  as  this 
evening;  and  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  come.  She  was 
going  to  say  what  she  could  and  escape,  when  he  began 
again.  "  You're  the  last  person  who  should  upset  me ! 
The  very  last !  "  he  babbled.  "  When  it's  all  for  you !  It's 
little  good  it  can  do  me.  And  Basset,  he'd  the  ball  at  his 
foot,  and  wouldn't  kick  it!  But  I'll  show  you,  I'll  show 
you  all !  "  he  continued,  gesticulating  with  a  violence  that 
distressed  Mary.  "  Ay,  and  I'll  show  him  what  I  am !  He 
thinks  he's  safe,  d — n  him!  He  thinks  he's  safe!  He's 
spending  my  money  and  adding  up  my  balance!  He's 
walking  on  my  land  and  sleeping  in  my  bed!  He's  pea- 
cocking in  my  name!  But — but "  he  stopped,  strug- 
gling for  words.  For  an  instant  he  turned  on  her  over  his 
shoulder  a  face  distorted  by  passion. 

Thoroughly  alarmed,  she  tried  to  soothe  him.  "But  I 
am  sure,  sir/'  she  said,  "  Mr.  Basset  would  never " 

"  Basset !  " 

"  I'm  sure  he  never  dreamt " 

"Basset!"  he  repeated.  "No!  but  Audley!  Lord 
Audley,  Audley  of  Beaudelays,  Audley  of  nowhere  and 
nothing!  And  no  Audley!  no  Audley!"  he  repeated  furi- 
ously, while  again  he  fought  for  breath,  and  again  he 


MARY  18  LOXELY  245 

mastered  himself  and  lowered  his  tone.  "  No  Audley !  " 
he  whispered,  pointing  a  hand  at  her,  "  but  Jacob,  girl ! 
Jacob  the  supplanter,  Jacob  the  changeling,  Jacob  the  base- 
born  !  And  he  thinks  I  lie  awake  of  nights,  hundreds  of 
nights,  for  nothing!  He  thinks  I  dream  of  him — for  noth- 
ing! He  thinks  I  go  out  with  the  bats — for  nothing!  He 
thinks  I  have  a  canker  here !  Here !  "  And  he  clapped  his 
hand  to  his  breast,  a  grotesque,  yet  dreadful  figure  in  his 
huddled  dressing-gown,  his  flaccid  cheeks  quivering  with 
rage.  "  For  nothing !  But  I'll  show  him !  I'll  ruin  him ! 
I'll " 

His  voice,  which  had  risen  to  a  scream,  stopped.  Toft 
had  opened  the  door.  "Sir!  Mr.  Audley!"  he  cried. 
"  For  God's  sake  be  calm !  For  God's  sake  have  a  care, 
sir!  And  }-ou,  Miss,"  he  continued;  "you  see  what  you 
have  done !  If  you'll  leave  him  I'll  get  him  to  bed.  I'll 
get  him  to  bed  and  quiet  him — if  I  can." 

Mary  was  shocked,  and  yet  she  felt  that  she  could  not  go 
without  a  word.  "  Dear  uncle,"  she  said,  "  you  wish  me 
to  go  ?  " 

He  had  clutched  one  of  the  posts  of  the  bed  and  was 
supporting  himself  by  it.  The  fire  had  died  down  in  him, 
he  was  no  more  now  than  a  feeble,  shaking  old  man.  He 
wiped  his  brow  and  his  lips.  "  Yes,  go,"  he  whispered. 
"  Go." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  I  disturbed  you,"  she  said.  "  I  won't 
do  it  again.  You  were  right,  Toft.  Good-night." 

The  man  said  "  Good-night,  Miss."  Her  uncle  said 
nothing.  He  had  let  himself  down  on  the  bed,  but  he 
still  clung  to  the  post.  Mary  looked  at  him  in  sorrow, 
grieved  to  leave  him  in  this  state.  But  she  had  no  choice, 
and  she  went  out  and,  closing  the  door  behind  her,  groped 
her  way  down  the  narrow  staircase. 

It  was  a  little  short  of  ten  when  she  reached  the  parlor, 
but  she  was  in  no  mood  for  reading.  What  she  had  seen 
had  shocked  and  frightened  her.  She  was  sure  now  that 


246  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

her  uncle  was  not  sane ;  and  while  she  was  equally  sure  that 
Toft  exercised  a  strong  influence  over  him,  she  had  her 
misgivings  as  to  that.  Something  must  be  done.  She 
must  consult  some  one.  Life  at  the  Gatehouse  could  not 
go  on  on  this  footing.  She  must  see  Dr.  Pepper. 

Unluckily  when  she  had  settled  this  to  her  mind,  and 
sought  her  bed,  she  could  not  sleep.  Long  after  she  had 
heard  Etruria  go  to  her  room,  long  after  she  had  heard  the 
girl's  shoes  fall — familiar  sound ! — Mary  lay  awake,  think- 
ing now  of  her  uncle's  state  and  her  duty  towards  him,  now 
of  her  own  future,  that  future  which  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  have  lost  its  brightness.  Doubts  that  the  sun 
dismisses,  fears  at  which  daylight  laughs,  are  Giants  of 
Despair  in  the  dark  watches.  So  it  was  with  her.  Mis- 
givings which  she  would  not  have  owned  in  the  daylight, 
rose  up  and  put  on  grisly  shapes.  Her  uncle  and  his  mad- 
ness, her  lover  and  his  absence,  passed  in  endless  proces- 
sion through  her  brain.  In  vain  she  tossed  and  turned,  sat 
up  in  despair,  tried  the  cooler  side  of  the  pillow.  She 
could  not  rest. 

The  door  creaked.  She  fancied  a  step  on  the  staircase, 
a  hand  on  the  latch.  Far  away  in  the  depths  of  the  house  a 
clock  struck.  It  was  three  o'clock — only  three  o'clock! 
And  it  would  not  be  light  before  eight — not  much  before 
eight.  Oh  dear !  Oh  dear ! 

And  then  she  slept. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  morning,  the  light  was  filtering 
in  through  the  white  dimity  curtains,  and  some  one  was 
really  at  her  door.  Some  one  was  knocking.  She  sat  up. 
"What  is  it?  "she  cried. 

"  Can  I  come  in,  Miss  ?  " 

The  voice  was  Mrs.  Toft's,  and  Mary  needed  no  second 
warning.  She  knew  in  a  moment  that  the  woman  brought 
bad  news.  She  sprang  out  of  bed,  put  on  a  dressing-gown, 
and  with  bare  feet  she  went  to  the  door.  She  unlocked  it 
"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Toft?  "  she  said. 


MARY  18  LONELY  247 

"Maybe  not  much,"  the  woman  answered  cautiously. 
"  I  hope  not,  Miss,  but  I  had  to  tell  you.  The  Master  is 
missing." 

"  Missing?  "  Mary  exclaimed,  the  blood  leaving  her  face. 
"  Impossible !  Why,  I  saw  him,  I  was  in  his  room  last 
evening  after  nine  o'clock." 

"  Toft  was  with  him  up  to  eleven,"  Mrs.  Toft  answered. 
Her  face  was  grave.  "  But  he's  gone  now?  " 

"  You  mean  that  he  is  not  in  his  room ! "  Mary  said. 

"  But  have  you  looked "  and  she  named  places  where 

her  uncle  might  be — places  in  the  house. 

"We've  looked  there,"  Mrs.  Toft  answered.  "Toft's 
been  everywhere.  The  Master's  not  in  the  house.  We're 
well-nigh  sure  of  that.  And  the  door  in  the  courtyard  was 
open  this  morning.  I  am  afraid  he's  gone,  Miss." 

"  In  his  state  and  at  night  ?  Why,  it's "  The  girl 

broke  off  and  took  hold  of  herself.  "  Very  well,"  she  said. 
"  I  shall  not  be  more  than  five  minutes.  I  will  come 
down." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MISSING 

MARY  scrambled  into  her  clothes  without  pausing  to  do 
more  than  knot  up  her  hair.  She  tried  to  steady  her 
nerves  and  to  put  from  her  the  thought  that  it  was  her 
visit  which  had  upset  her  uncle.  That  thought  would  only 
flurry  her,  and  she  must  be  cool.  In  little  more  than  the  five 
minutes  that  she  had  named  she  was  in  the  hall,  and  found 
Mrs.  Toft  waiting  for  her.  The  door  into  the  courtyard 
stood  open,  the  bleak  light  and  raw  air  of  a  January  morn- 
ing poured  in,  but  neither  of  them  heeded  this.  Their  eyes 
met,  and  Mary  saw  that  the  woman,  who  was  usually  so 
placid,  was  frightened. 

"  Where  is  Toft?"  Mary  asked. 

"  He's  away  this  ten  minutes,"  Mrs.  Toft  replied. 
"  He's  gone  to  the  Yew  Walk,  where  you  found  the  Master 
before.  But  law,  Miss,  if  he's  there  in  this  weather ! " 
She  lifted  up  her  hands. 

Mary  controlled  herself.    "  And  Etruria?  "  she  asked. 

"  She's  searching  outside  the  house.  If  she  does  not  find 
him  she  is  to  run  over  to  Fetch  the  keeper,  and  bring  him/' 

"Quite  right,"  Mary  said.  "Did  Toft  take  any 
brandy  ?" 

"  He  did,  Miss.  And  the  big  kettle  is  on,  if  there  is  a 
bath  wanted,  and  I've  put  a  couple  of  bricks  to  heat  in  the 
oven." 

"  You're  sure  you've  looked  everywhere  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  As  sure  as  can  be,  Miss !  More  by  token,  I've  some 
coffee  ready  for  you  in  the  parlor." 

But  Mary  said,  "Bring  it  here,  Mrs.  Toft."  And 

248 


MISSING  249 

snatching  up  a  shawl  and  folding  it  about  her,  she  stepped 
outside.  It  was  a  gray,  foggy  morning,  and  the  flagged 
court  wore  a  desolate  air.  In  one  corner  a  crowd  of  dead 
leaves  were  circling  in  the  gusts  of  wind,  in  another  a  little 
pile  of  snow  had  drifted,  and  between  the  monsters  that 
flanked  the  Gateway,  the  old  hound,  deaf  and  crippled, 
stood  peering  across  the  park.  Mary  fancied  that  the  dog 
descried  Toft  returning,  and  she  ran  across  the  court.  But 
no  one  was  in  sight.  The  park  with  its  clumps  of  dead 
bracken,  its  naked  trees  and  gnarled  blackthorns,  stretched 
away  under  a  thin  sprinkling  of  snow.  Shivering  she 
returned  to  the  hall,  where  Mrs.  Toft  awaited  her  with  the 
coffee. 

"  Now,"  Mary  said,  "  tell  me  about  it,  please — from  the 
beginning." 

"Toft  had  left  Mr.  Audley  about  eleven/'  Mrs.  Toft 
explained.  "  The  Master  had  been  a  bit  put  out,  and  that 
kept  him.  But  he'd  settled  down,  and  when  Toft  left  him 
he  was  much  as  usual.  It  could  not  have  been  before 
eleven,"  Mrs.  Toft  continued,  rubbing  her  nose,  "  for  I 
heard  the  kitchen  clock  strike  eleven,  and  I  was  asleep 
when  Toft  came  in.  The  next  I  remember  was  finding 
Toft  had  got  out  of  bed.  "What  is  it?"  says  I.  He 
didn't  answer,  and  I  roused  up  and  was  going  to  get  a 
light.  But  he  told  me  not  to  make  a  noise,  he'd  been  woke 
by  hearing  a  door  slam,  and  thought  that  some  one  had 
crossed  the  court.  He  was  at  the  window  then,  looking 
out,  but  we  heard  nothing,  and  after  a  while  Toft  came 
back  to  bed." 

"What  time  was  that?" 

"I  couldn't  say,  Miss,  and  I  don't  suppose  Toft  could. 
It  was  dark  and  before  six,  because  when  I  woke  again 
it  was  on  six.  But  God  knows  it  was  a  thousand  pities  we 
didn't  search  then,  for  it's  on  my  mind  that  it  was  the 
poor  Master.  And  if  we'd  known,  Toft  would  have  stopped 
him." 


250  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Well  ?  "  Mary  said  gravely.  "  And  when  did  you  miss 
him?" 

"  Most  mornings  Etruria  'd  let  me  into  the  house.  But 
this  morning  she  found  the  door  unlocked;  howsomever 
she  thought  nothing  of  it,  for  Toft  has  a  key  as  well,  and 
since  the  Master's  illness  and  him  coming  and  going  at  all 
hours,  he  has  not  always  locked  the  door;  so  she  made  no 
remark.  A  bit  before  eight  Toft  came  down — I  didn't  see 
him  but  I  heard  him — and  at  eight  he  took  up  the  Master's 
cup  of  tea.  Toft  makes  it  in  the  pantry  and  takes 
it  up." 

Mrs.  Toft  paused  heavily — not  without  enjoyment. 

"  Yes/'  Mary  said  anxiously,  "  and  then?  " 

"I  suppose  it  was  five  minutes  after,  he  came  out  to  me 
— I  was  in  the  kitchen  getting  our  breakfast — and  he  was 
shaking  all  over.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  saw  a  man  more 
upset.  '  He's  gone ! '  he  said.  '  Law,  Toft,'  I  said. 
'What's  the  matter?  Who's  gone?'  'The  Master!'  he 
said.  'Fiddlesticks!'  says  I.  'Where  should  he  go?' 
And  with  that  I  went  into  the  house  and  up  to  the  Master's 
room.  When  I  saw  it  was  empty  you  could  have  knocked 
me  down  with  a  feather !  I  looked  round  a  bit,  and  then 
I  went  up  to  Mr.  Basset's  room  that's  over,  and  down  again 
to  the  library,  and  so  forth.  By  that  time  Toft  was  there, 
gawpin  about.  '  He's  gone ! '  he  kept  saying.  I  don't 
know  as  I  ever  saw  Toft  truly  upset  before." 

"  And  what  then?  "  Mary  asked.  Twice  she  had  looked 
through  the  door,  but  to  no  purpose. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  if  he's  not  here  he  can't  be  far !  Don't 
twitter,  man,  but  think !  It's  my  belief  he's  away  sleep- 
walking or  what  not,  to  the  place  you  found  him  before. 
On  that  I  gave  Toft  some  brandy  and  he  went  off." 

"  Shouldn't  he  be  back  by  now?" 

"He  should,  Miss,  if  he's  not  found  him,"  Mrs.  Toft 
answered.  "  But,  if  he's  found  him,  he  couldn't  carry  him ! 
Toft's  not  all  that  strong.  And  if  the  Master's  lain  out 


MISSING  251 

long,  it's  not  all  the  brandy  in  the  world  will  bring  him 
round ! " 

Mary  shuddered,  and  moved  by  a  common  impulse  the 
two  went  out  and  crossed  the  court.  The  old  hound  was 
still  at  gaze  in  the  gateway,  still  staring  with  purblind  eyes 
down  the  vistas  of  the  park.  "  Maybe  he  sees  more  than  we 
see/'  Mrs.  Toft  muttered.  "  He'd  not  stand  there,  would 
the  old  dog,  as  he's  stood  twenty  minutes,  for  nothing." 

She  was  right,  for  the  next  moment  three  figures  ap- 
peared hurrying  across  the  park  towards  them.  It  was 
impossible  to  mistake  Toft's  lanky  figure.  The  others  were 
Etruria,  with  a  shawl  about  her  head,  and  the  keeper  Fetch. 

Mary  scanned  them  anxiously.  "  Have  they  found 
him  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Toft  said.  "  If  they'd  found  him,  one  would 
have  stopped  with  him." 

"  Of  course,"  Mary  said.  And  heedless  of  the  cold, 
searching  wind  that  swung  their  skirts  and  carried  showers 
of  dead  leaves  sailing  past  them,  they  waited  until  Toft 
and  the  others,  talking  together,  came  up.  Mary  saw  that, 
in  spite  of  the  pace  at  which  he  had  walked,  Toft's  face 
was  colorless.  He  was  almost  livid.  His  daughter  wore  an 
anxious  look,  while  the  keeper  was  pleasantly  excited. 

As  soon  as  the  three  were  within  hearing,  "  You've  not 
found  him  ?  "  Mary  cried. 

"  No,  Miss,"  Etruria  answered. 

"  Nor  any  trace  ?  " 

"  No,  Miss.  My  father  has  been  as  far  as  the  iron  gate, 
and  found  it  locked.  It  was  no  use  going  on." 

"  He  could  not  have  walked  farther  without  help,"  Mrs. 
Toft  said.  "  If  the  Master's  not  between  us  and  the 
gardens  he's  not  that  way." 

"  Then  where  is  he  ?  "  Mary  cried,  aghast.  She  looked 
from  one  to  the  other.  "  Where  can  he  be,  Toft  ?  " 

Toft  raised  his  hands  and  let  them  fall.  It  was  clear 
that  he  had  given  up  hope. 


252  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

But  his  wife  was  of  different  mettle.  "  That's  to  be 
Been,"  she  said  briskly.  "  Anyway,  you'll  be  perished  here, 
Miss,  and  I  don't  want  another  invalid  on  my  hands. 
We'll  go  in,  if  you  please." 

Mary  gave  way.  They  turned  to  go  in,  but  it  was 
noticeable  that  as  they  moved  towards  the  house  each, 
stirred  by  the  same  thought,  swept  the  extent  of  the  park 
with  eyes  that  clung  to  it,  and  were  loth  to  leave  it.  Each 
hung  for  a  moment,  searching  this  alley  or  that,  fancying 
a  clue  in  some  distant  object,  or  taking  a  clump  of  gorse, 
or  a  jagged  stump  for  the  fallen  man.  All  were  harassed 
by  the  thought  that  they  might  be  abandoning  him;  that 
in  turning  their  backs  on  the  bald,  wintry  landscape  they 
might  be  carrying  away  with  them  his  last  chance. 

"'T  would  take  a  day  to  search  the  park,"  the  keeper 
muttered.  "  And  a  dozen  men,  I'm  afeared,  to  do  it 
thoroughly." 

"Why  not  take  a  round  yourself!"  Mrs.  Toft  replied. 
"  And  if  you  find  nothing  be  at  the  house  in  an  hour, 
Fetch,  and  we'll  know  better  what's  to  do.  The  poor 
gentleman's  off  his  head,  I  doubt,  and  there's  no  saying 
where  he'd  wander.  But  he  can't  be  far,  and  I'm  begin- 
ning to  think  he's  in  the  house  after  all." 

The  man  agreed  willingly,  and  strode  away  across  the 
turf.  The  others  entered  the  hall.  Mary  was  for  paus- 
ing there,  but  Mrs.  Toft  swept  them  all  into  the  parlor 
where  a  good  fire  was  burning.  "  You'll  excuse  me,  Miss," 
she  said,  "  but  Toft  will  be  the  better  for  this,"  and  with- 
out ceremony  she  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee,  jerked  into  it 
a  little  brandy  from  the  decanter  on  the  sideboard,  and 
handed  it  to  her  husband.  "  Drink  that,"  she  said,  "  and 
get  your  wits  together,  man !  You're  no  better  than  a  wisp 
of  paper  now,  and  it's  only  you  can  help  us.  Now  think ! 
You  know  him  best.  Where  can  he  be?  Did  he  say  no 
word  last  night  to  give  you  a  clue?  " 

A  little  color  came  back  to  Toft's  face.    He  sighed  and 


MISSING  253 

passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  "  If  I'd  never  left 
him  !  "  he  said.  "  I  never  ought  to  have  left  him !  " 

"  It's  no  good  going  over  that !  "  Mrs.  Toft  replied  im- 
patiently. "  He  means,  Miss,  that  up  to  three  nights  ago 
he  slept  in  the  Master's  room.  Then  when  the  Master 
seemed  better  Toft  came  back  to  his  bed." 

"  I  ought  to  have  stayed  with  him/'  Toft  repeated. 
That  seemed  the  one  thought  in  his  mind. 

"But  where  is  he?"  Mary  cried.  "Where?  Every 
moment  we  stand  talking — can't  you  think  where  he  might 
go?  Are  there  no  hiding-places  in  the  house?  No  secret 
passages  ?  " 

Mrs.  Toft  raised  her  hands.  "Lord's  sake!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "There's  the  locked  closet  in  his  room  where  he 
keeps  his  papers.  I  never  looked  there.  It's  seldom 
opened,  and " 

She  did  not  finish.  With  one  accord  they  hurried 
through  the  library  and  up  the  stairs  to  the  old  tapestried 
room,  where  Mr.  Audley  had  slept  and  for  the  last  month 
had  lived.  The  others  had  been  in  it  since  his  disappear- 
ance, Mary  had  not;  and  she  felt  a  thrill  of  awe  as  she 
passed  the  threshold.  The  angular  faces,  the  oblique  eyes, 
of  the  watchers  in  the  needlework  on  the  wall,  that  from 
generation  to  generation  had  looked  down  on  marriage  and 
birth  and  death — what  had  they  seen  during  the  past 
night?  On  what  had  they  gazed,  she  asked  herself.  Mrs. 
Toft,  less  fanciful  or  more  familiar  with  the  room,  had  no 
such  thoughts.  She  crossed  the  floor  to  a  low  door  which 
was  outlined  for  those  who  knew  of  its  existence,  by  rough 
cuts  in  the  arras.  It  led  into  a  closet,  contained  in  one 
of  the  turrets. 

Mrs.  Toft  tried  the  door,  shook  it,  knocked  on  it. 
Finally  she  set  her  eye  to  the  keyhole.  "  He's  not  there," 
she  said.  "  There's  no  key  in  the  lock.  He'd  not  take  out 
the  key,  that's  certain." 

Mary  scanned  the  disordered  room.    Books  lay  in  heaps 


254  THE  GREA  T  HO  USE 

on  the  deep  window-seats,  and  even  on  the  floor.  A  table 
by  one  of  the  windows  was  strewn  with  papers  and  letters.; 
on  another  beside  the  bed-head  stood  a  tray  with  night 
drinks,  a  pair  of  candles,  an  antique  hour-glass,  a  steel 
pistol.  The  bedclothes  were  dragged  down,  as  if  the  bed 
had  been  slept  in,  and  over  the  rail  at  the  foot,  half  hidden 
by  the  heavy  curtains,  hung  a  nightgown.  She  took  this 
up  and  found  beneath  it  a  pair  of  slippers  and  a  shoe- 
horn. 

"  He  was  dressed  then  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

Toft  eyed  the  things.  "  Yes,  Miss,  I've  no  doubt  he  was," 
he  said  despondently.  "  His  overcoat's  gone." 

"  Then  he  meant  to  leave  the  house? "  Mary  cried. 

"  God  save  us !  " 

"  He's  taken  his  silver  flask  too,"  Etruria  said  in  a  low 
voice.  She  was  examining  the  dressing-table.  "  And  his 
watch." 

"His  watch?" 

"  Yes,  Miss." 

"But  that's  odd,"  Mary  said,  fixing  her  eyes  on  Toft. 
"  Don't  you  think  that's  odd  ?  If  my  uncle  had  rambled 
out  in  some  nightmare  or — or  wandering,  would  he  have 
taken  his  flask  and  his  watch,  Toft?  Are  his  spectacles 
there?" 

Toft  inspected  the  table,  raised  the  pillow,  felt  under  the 
bolster.  "  No,  Miss,"  he  said ;  "  he's  taken  them." 

"  Ah !  "  Mary  replied ;  "  then  I  have  hope.  Wherever 
he  is,  he  is  in  his  senses.  Now,  Toft !  " — she  looked  hard 
at  the  man — "  think  again !  Surely  since  he  had  this  in 
his  mind  last  night  he  must  have  let  something  drop? 
Some  word?  " 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "Not  that  I  heard,  Miss," 
he  said. 

Mary  sighed.  But  Mrs.  Toft  was  less  patient.  She 
exploded.  "  You  gaby ! "  she  cried.  "  Where's  your 
senses  ?  It's  to  you  we're  looking,  and  a  poor  stick  you  are 


MISSING  255 

in  time  of  trouble !  I  couldn't  have  believed  it !  Find  your 
tongue,  Toft,  say  something!  You  knew  the  Master  down 
to  his  shoe  leather.  Let's  hear  what  you  do  think!  He 
couldn't  walk  far !  He  couldn't  walk  a  mile  without  help. 
Where  is  he  ?  Where  do  you  think  he  is  ?  " 

Toft's  answer  silenced  them.  If  one  of  the  mute,  staring 
figures  on  the  walls — that  watched  as  from  the  boxes  of  a 
theatre  the  living  actors — had  stepped  down,  it  would 
hardly  have  affected  them  more  deeply.  The  man  sat 
down  on  the  bed,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
rocking  himself  to  and  fro  broke  into  a  passion  of  weeping. 
"  The  poor  Master !  "  he  cried  between  his  sobs.  "  The 
poor  Master ! " 

Quickly  at  that  Mary's  feelings  underwent  a  change. 
As  if  she  had  stood  already  beside  her  uncle's  grave,  sorrow 
took  the  place  of  perplexity.  His  past  kindness  dragged  at 
her  heart-strings.  She  forgot  that  she  had  never  been  able 
to  love  him,  she  forgot  that  behind  the  man  whom  she  had 
known  she  had  been  ever  conscious  of  another  being,  vague, 
shifting,  inhuman.  She  remembered  only  the  help  he 
had  given,  the  home  he  had  offered,  the  rare  hours  of  sym- 
pathy. "  Don't,  Toft,  don't !  "  she  cried,  tears  in  her  voice. 
She  touched  the  man  on  the  shoulder.  "  Don't  give  up 
hope !  " 

As  for  Mrs.  Toft,  surprise  silenced  her.  When  she  found 
her  voice,  "  Well,"  she  said,  looking  round  her  with  a  sort 
of  pride,  "who'll  say  after  this  that  Toft's  a  hard  man? 
Why,  if  the  Master  was  lying  on  that  bed  ready  for  burial 
— and  we're  some  way  off  that,  the  Lord  be  thanked ! — he 
couldn't  carry  on  more!  But  there,  let's  look  now,  and 
weep  afterwards!  Pull  yourself  together,  Toft,  or  who's 
the  young  lady  to  depend  on?  If  you  take  my  advice, 
Miss,"  she  continued,  "  we'll  get  out  of  this  room.  It 
always  did  give  me  the  fantods  with  them  Egyptians  star- 
ing at  me  from  the  walls,  and  to-day  it's  worse  than  a 
hearse !  Now  downstairs " 


256  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  You  are  quite  right,  Mrs.  Toft,"  Mary  said.  "  We'll 
go  downstairs."  She  shared  to  the  full  Mrs.  Toft's  dis- 
taste for  the  room.  "  We're  doing  no  good  here,  and  your 
husband  can  follow  us  when  he  is  himself  again.  Fetch 
should  be  back  by  this  time,  and  we  ought  to  arrange  what 
is  to  be  done  outside." 

Toft  made  no  demur,  and  they  went  down.  They  found 
the  keeper  waiting  in  the  hall.  He  had  made  no  discovery, 
and  Mary,  to  whom  Toft's  breakdown  had  given  fresh 
energy,  took  things  into  her  own  hands.  She  gave  Fetch 
his  orders.  He  must  get  together  a  dozen  men,  and  search 
the  park  and  every  place  within  a  mile  of  the  Gatehouse. 
He  must  report  by  messenger  every  two  hours  to  the  house, 
and  in  the  meantime  he  must  send  a  man  on  horseback  to 
the  town  for  Dr.  Fepper." 

"And  Mr.  Basset?"  Mrs.  Toft  murmured. 

"  I  will  write  a  note  to  Mr.  Basset,"  Mary  said,  "  and  the 
man  must  send  it  by  post-horses  from  the  Audley  Arms. 
I  will  write  it  now."  She  sat  down  in  the  library,  cold  as 
the  room  was,  and  scrawled  three  lines,  telling  Basset  that 
her  uncle  had  disappeared  during  the  night,  and  that,  ill 
as  he  was,  she  feared  the  worst. 

Then,  when  Fetch  had  gone  to  get  his  men  together — a 
task  which  would  take  time  as  there  were  no  farms  at  hand 
— she  and  Mrs.  Toft  searched  the  house  room  by  room, 
while  Etruria  and  her  father  went  again  through  the  out- 
buildings. But  the  quest  was  as  fruitless  as  the  former 
search  had  been. 

Mary  had  known  many  unhappy  days  in  Paris,  days  of 
anxiety,  of  loneliness,  of  apprehension,  when  she  had 
doubted  where  she  would  lodge  or  what  she  would  eat  for 
her  next  meal.  Now  she  had  a  source  of  strength  in  her 
engagement  and  her  love,  which  should  have  been  inex- 
haustible. But  she  never  forgot  the  misery  of  this  day, 
nor  ever  looked  back  on  it  without  a  shudder.  Probably 
there  were  moments  when  she  sat  down,  when  she  took  a 


MISSING  257 

hasty  meal,  when  she  sought  Mrs.  Toft  in  her  •warm  kitchen 
or  talked  with  Etruria  before  her  own  fire.  But  as  she 
remembered  the  day,  she  spent  the  long  hours  gazing  across 
the  wintry  park;  now  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  line  of 
beaters  as  it  appeared  for  a  moment  crossing  a  glade,  now 
watching  the  approach  of  the  messenger  who  came  to  tell 
her  that  they  had  found  nothing;  or  again  straining  her 
eyes  for  the  arrival  of  Dr.  Pepper,  who,  had  she  known  it, 
was  at  the  deathbed  of  an  old  patient,  ten  miles  on  the 
farther  side  of  Riddsley. 

Now  and  again  a  hailstorm  swept  across  the  park,  and 
Mrs.  Toft  came  out  and  scolded  her  into  shelter;  or  a 
farmer,  whose  men  had  been  borrowed,  "  happened  that 
way,"  and  after  a  gruff  question  touched  his  hat  and  went 
off  to  join  the  searchers.  Once  a  distant  cry  seemed  to 
herald  a  discovery,  and  she  tried  to  steady  her  leaping 
pulses.  But  nothing  came  of  it  except  some  minutes  of 
anxiety.  And  once  her  waiting  ear  caught  the  clang  of 
the  bell  that  hung  in  the  hall  and  she  flew  through  the 
house  to  the  front  door,  only  to  learn  that  the  visitor  was 
the  carrier  who  three  times  a  week  called  for  letters  on  his 
way  to  town.  The  dreary  house  with  its  open  doors,  its 
cold  draughts,  its  unusual  aspect,  the  hurried  meals,  the 
furtive  glances,  the  hours  of  suspense  and  fear — these 
stamped  the  day  for  ever  on  Mary's  memory:  as  sometimes 
an  hour  of  loneliness  prints  itself  on  the  mind  of  a  child 
who  all  his  life  long  hears  with  distaste  the  clash  of  wed- 
ding bells. 

At  length  the  wintry  day  with  its  gusts  of  snow  began  to 
draw  in.  Before  four  Fetch  sent  in  to  say  that  he  had 
beaten  the  park  and  also  the  gardens  at  the  Great  House, 
but  had  found  nothing.  Half  his  men  were  now  searching 
the  slope  on  either  side  of  the  Riddsley  road.  With  the 
other  half  he  was  going  to  explore,  while  the  light  lasted, 
the  fringe  of  the  Chase  towards  Brown  Heath. 

That  left  Mary  face  to  face  with  the  night;  with  the  long 


258  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

hours  of  darkness,  which  inaction  must  render  infinitely 
worse  than  those  of  the  day.  She  had  visions  of  the  wind- 
swept park,  the  sullen  ponds,  the  frozen  moorland;  they 
spread  before  her  fraught  with  some  brooding  terror.  She 
had  never  much  marked,  she  had  seldom  felt  the  loneliness 
of  the  house.  Now  it  pressed  itself  upon  her,  isolated  her, 
menaced  her.  It  made  the  thought  of  the  night,  that  lay 
before  her,  almost  unbearable. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A   FOOTSTEP  IN   THE   HALL 

MRS.  TOFT  bringing  in  candles,  and  looking  grave  enough 
herself,  noticed  the  girl's  pale  face  and  chid  her  gently. 
"  I  don't  believe  that  you've  sat  down  this  blessed  day, 
Hiss !  "  she  said.  "  Nor  no  more  than  looked  at  good  food. 
But  tea  you  shall  have  and  sit  down  to  it,  or  my  name's 
not  Anne  Toft !  Fretting's  no  manner  of  use,  and  fasting's 
a  poor  stick  to  beat  trouble  with !  " 

"  But,  Mrs.  Toft,"  Mary  said,  her  face  piteous,  "  it's  the 
thought  that  he  may  be  lying  out  there,  helpless  and  dying, 
while  we  sit  here " 

"  Steady,  Miss !  Giving  way  does  no  good,  and  too  much 
mind's  worse  than  none.  If  he's  out  there  he's  gone,  poor 
gentleman,  long  ago.  And  Dr.  Pepper  '11  say  the  same. 
It's  not  in  reason  he  should  be  alive  if  he's  in  the  open. 
And,  God  knows,  if  he's  under  cover  it's  little  better/' 

"But  then  if  he  is  alive!"  Mary  cried.  "Think  of 
another  night! " 

"  Ay,  I  know/'  Mrs.  Toft  said.  "  And  hard  it  is !  But 
you've  been  a  model  all  this  blessed  day,  and  it's  no  time 
to  break  down  now.  Where  that  dratted  doctor  is,  beats 
me,  though  he  could  do  no  more  than  we've  done !  But 
there,  Mr.  Basset  will  be  with  us  to-morrow,  and  he'll  find 
the  poor  gentleman  dead  or  alive!  There's  some  as  are 
more  to  look  at  than  the  Squire,  but  there's  few  I'd  put 
before  him  at  a  pinch!  " 

"  Where's  Toft?  "  Mary  asked. 

"  He  went  to  join  Petch  two  hours  ago,"  Mrs.  Toft 
explained.  "  And  there  again,  take  Toft.  He's  a  good 

359 


260  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

husband,  but  there's  no  one  would  say  he  was  a  man  to 
wear  his  heart  outside.  But  you  saw  how  hard  he  took  it? 
I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Toft  continued  thoughtfully,  "  as  I've 
seen  Toft  shed  a  tear  these  twenty  years — no,  nor  twice 
since  we  went  to  church !  " 

"  You  don't  think,"  Mary  asked,  "  that  he  knows  more 
than  he  has  told  us?" 

The  question  took  Mrs.  Toft  aback.  "  Why,  Miss,"  she 
said,  "  you  don't  mean  as  you  think  he  was  putting  on  this 
morning?  " 

"  No,"  Mary  answered.  "  But  is  it  possible  that  he 
knows  the  worst  and  does  not  tell  us?  " 

"  And  why  shouldn't  he  tell  us?  It  would  be  strange  if 
he  wouldn't  tell  his  own  wife?  And  you  that's  Mr. 
Audley's  nearest! " 

"  It's  all  so  strange,"  Mary  pleaded.  "  My  uncle  is  gone. 
Where  has  he  gone  ?  " 

Mrs.  Toft  did  not  answer  the  question.  She  could  not. 
And  there  came  an  interruption.  "  That's  Fetch's  voice," 
she  said.  "  They're  back." 

The  men  trooped  into  the  hall.  They  advanced  to  the 
door  of  the  parlor,  Fetch  leading,  a  man  whom  Mary  did 
not  know  next  to  him,  after  these  a  couple  of  farmers  and 
Toft,  in  the  background  a  blur  of  faces  vaguely  seen. 

"  We've  found  something,  Miss,"  Fetch  said.  "  At  least 
Tom  has.  But  I'm  not  sure  it  lightens  things  much.  He 
was  going  home  by  the  Yew  Tree  Walk  and  pretty  close,  to 
the  iron  gate,  when  what  should  he  see  lying  in  the  middle 
of  the  walk  but  this !  " 

Fetch  held  out  a  silver  flask. 

"  It's  the  Master's,  sure  enough,"  Mrs.  Toft  said. 

"  Ay,"  Fetch  answered.  "  But  the  odd  thing  is,  I 
searched  that  place  before  noon,  a'most  inch  by  inch,  look- 
ing for  footprints,  and  I  went  over  it  again  when  we  were 
beating  the  Yew  Tree  Walk  this  afternoon,  and  I'm  danged 
if  that  flask  was  there  then ! " 


A  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  HALL  261 

"  I  don't  think  as  you  could  ha*  missed  it,  Mr.  Fetch," 
the  finder  said,  "  it  was  that  bright  and  plain!  " 

"  But  isn't  the  grass  long  there?  "  Mary  asked.  She  had 
already  as  much  mystery  as  she  could  bear  and  wanted  no 
addition  to  it. 

"  Not  that  long,"  said  Tom. 

"  No,  not  that  long,  the  lad's  right,"  Petcb.  added.  "  I 
warrant  I  must  have  seen  it." 

"  That  you  must,  Mr.  Fetch,"  a  lad  in  the  background 
said.  "  I  was  next  man,  and  I  wondered  when  you'd  ha' 
done  that  bit." 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  Mary  answered.  "  If  it  was 
not  there,  this  morning " 

"  I  don't  understand  neither,  lady,'*  the  keeper  rejoined. 
"  But  it  is  on  my  mind  that  there's  foul  play!" 

"  Oh,  but,"  Mary  protested,  "  who — why  should  any  one 
hurt  my  uncle  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  as  to  that,"  Fetch  replied,  darkly.  "  I  don't 
know  anybody  as  would.  But  there's  the  flask,  and  flasks 
don't  travel  without  hands.  If  he  took  it  out  of  the  house 
with  him " 

"May  he  not  have  dropped  it — this  afternoon?"  Mary 
suggested.  "  Suppose  he  wandered  that  way  after  you 
passed  ?  " 

The  keeper  shook  his  head.  "  If  he  had  passed  that  way 
this  afternoon  it  isn't  one  but  six  pairs  of  eyes  would 
ha'  seen  him." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  assent.  The  searchers  were 
keenly  enjoying  the  drama,  taking  in  every  change  that 
appeared  on  the  girl's  face.  They  were  men  into  whose 
lives  not  much  of  drama  entered. 

"  But  I  cannot  think  that  what  you  say  is  likely!  "  Mary 
protested.  She  had  held  her  own  "stoutly  through  the  day, 
but  now  with  the  eyes  of  all  these  men  upon  her  she  grew 
bewildered.  The  rows  of  faces,  the  bashful  hands  twisting 
caps,  the  blurred  white  of  smocked  frocks — grew  and  multi- 


262  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

plied  and  became  misty.  She  had  to  grasp  the  table  to 
steady  herself. 

Mrs.  Toft  saw  how  it  was,  and  came  to  the  rescue. 
"  What's  Toft  say  about  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure,  missus,"  Fetch  agreed.  "  I  dunno  as 
he's  said  anything  yet." 

"  I  don't  think  the  Master  could  have  passed  and  not 
been  seen,"  Toft  replied.  His  tone  was  low,  and  in  the 
middle  of  his  speech  he  shivered.  "  But  I'm  not  saying  that 
the  flask  wasn't  there  this  morning.  It's  a  small  thing." 

"  It  couldn't  have  been  overlooked,  Mr.  Toft,"  the  keeper 
replied  firmly.  "I  speak  as  I  know !  " 

Again  Mrs.  Toft  intervened.  "  I'm  sure  nobody  would 
ha'  laid  a  hand  on  the  Master ! "  she  said.  "  Nobody  in 
these  parts  and  nobody  foreign,  as  I  can  fancy.  I've  no 
doubt  at  all  the  poor  gentleman  awoke  with  some  maggot 
in  his  brain  and  wandered  off,  not  knowing.  The  question 
is,  what  can  we  do?  The  young  lady's  had  a  sad  day, 
and  it's  time  she  was  left  to  herself." 

"  There's  nothing  we  can  do  now,"  Fetch  said  flatly. 
"  It  stands  to  reason  if  we've  found  nothing  in  the  day- 
light we'll  find  nothing  in  the  dark.  We'll  be  back  at  eight 
in  the  morning.  Whether  we'd  ought  to  let  his  lordship 
know " 

"  Sho !  "  said  Mrs.  Toft  with  scorn.  "  What's  he  in  it, 
I'd  like  to  know?  But  there,  you've  said  what  you  come  to 
say  and  it's  time  we  left  the  young  lady  to  herself." 

Mary  raised  her  head.  "  One  moment,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  thank  you  all  for  what  you've  done.  And  for  what 
Fetch  says  about  the  flask,  he's  right  to  speak  out,  but  I 
can't  think  any  one  would  touch  my  uncle.  Only — can  we 
do  nothing?  Nothing  more?  Nothing  at  all?  If  we  don't 

find  him  to-night "  She  broke  off,  overcome  by  her 

feelings. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Miss,"  Fetch  said  gently.  "  We'd  all  be 
•willing,  but  we  don't  know  where  to  look.  I  own  I'm  fair 


A  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  HALL  263 

beat.  Still  Tom  and  I'll  stay  an  hour  or  two  with  Toft  in 
case  of  anything  happening.  Good-night,  Miss.  You're 
very  welcome,  I'm  sure." 

The  others  murmured  their  sympathy  as  they  trooped  out 
into  the  darkness.  Mrs.  Toft  bustled  away  for  the  tea,  and 
Mary  was  left  alone. 

Suspense  lay  heavy  on  her.  She  felt  that  she  ought  to 
be  doing  something  and  fhe  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
Dr.  Pepper  did  not  come,  the  Tofts  were  but  servants. 
They  could  not  take  the  onus,  they  could  not  share  her 
burden;  and  Toft  was  a  broken  reed.  Meanwhile  time 
pressed.  Hours,  nay,  minutes  might  make  all  the  difference 
between  life  and  death. 

When  Etruria  came  in  with  Mary's  tea  she  found  her 
mistress  bending  over  the  fire  in  an  attitude  of  painful 
depression,  and  she  said  a  few  words,  trying  to  impart  to 
her  something  of  her  own  patience.  That  patience  was  a 
fine  thing  in  Etruria  because  it  was  natural.  But  Mary 
was  of  sterner  stuff.  She  had  a  more  lively  imagination, 
and  she  could  not  be  blind  to  the  issues,  or  to  the  value  of 
every  moment  that  passed.  Even  while  she  listened  to 
Etruria  she  saw  with  the  eyes  of  fancy  a  hollow  amid  a 
clump  of  trees  not  far  from  a  pool  that  she  knew.  In 
summer  it  was  a  pleasant  dell,  clothed  with  mosses  and 
ferns  and  the  flowers  of  the  bog-bean;  in  winter  a  dank, 
sombre  hollow.  There  she  saw  her  uncle  lie,  amid  the 
decaying  leaves,  the  mud,  the  rank  grass;  and  the  vision 
was  too  much  for  her.  What  if  he  were  really  lying  there, 
while  she  sat  here  by  the  fire  ?  Sat  here  in  this  home  which 
he — he  had  given  her,  amid  the  comforts  which  he  had 
provided ! 

The  thought  was  horrible,  and  she  turned  fiercely  on  the 
comforter.  "  Don't !  "  she  cried.  "  You  don't  think !  You 
don't  understand !  We  can't  go  through  the  night  like  this ! 
They  must  go  on  looking !  Fetch  your  father !  And  bring 
Petch !  Bring  them  here ! "  she  cried. 


264  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Etruria  went,  alarmed  by  her  excitement,  but  almost  as 
quickly  she  came  back.  Toft  had  gone  out  with  Fetch 
and  the  other  man.  They  would  not  be  long. 

Mary  cried  out  on  them,  but  could  do  no  more  than  walk 
the  room,  and  after  a  time  Etruria  coaxed  her  to  sit  down 
and  eat ;  and  tea  and  food  restored  her  balance.  Still,  as 
she  sat  and  ate  she  listened — she  listened  always.  And 
Etruria,  taught  by  experience,  let  her  be  and  said  nothing. 

At  last,  "  How  long  they  are !  "  Mary  cried.  "  What  are 
they  doing?  Are  they  never " 

She  stopped.  The  footsteps  of  two  men  coming  through 
the  hall  had  reached  her  ears,  and  she  recognized  the  tread 
of  one — recognized  it  with  a  rush  of  relief  so  g'reat,  of 
thankfulness  so  overwhelming  that  she  was  startled  and 
might  well  have  been  more  than  startled,  had  she  been  free 
to  think  of  anything  but  the  lost  man.  It  was  Basset's  step, 
and  she  knew  it — she  would  have  known  it,  she  felt,  among 
a  hundred !  He  had  come !  An  instant  later  he  stood  in 
the  doorway,  booted  and  travel-stained,  his  whip  in  his 
hand,  just  as  he  had  dropped  from  the  saddle — and  with  a 
face  grave  indeed,  but  calm  and  confident.  He  seemed  to 
her  to  bring  relief,  help,  comfort,  safety,  all  in  one ! 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  here !  How — how  good  of 
you !  " 

"  Not  good  at  all,"  he  answered,  advancing  to  the  table 
and  quietly  taking  off  his  gloves.  "Your  messenger  met 
me  half-way  to  Blore.  I  was  coming  into  Eiddsley  to  a 
meeting.  I  had  only  to  ride  on.  Of  course  I  came." 

"But  the  meeting?"  she  asked  fearfully.  Was  he  only 
come  to  go  again? 

"  D — n  the  meeting !  "  he  answered,  moved  to  anger  by 
the  girl's  pale  face.  "  Will  you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea, 
Toft?  I  will  hear  Miss  Audley's  account  first.  Keep 
Fetch  and  the  other  man.  We  shall  want  them.  In  twenty 
minutes  I'll  talk  to  you.  That  will  do." 

Ah,  with  what  gratitude,  with  what  infinite  relief,  did 


A  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  HALL  265 

Mary  hear  his  tone  of  authority !  He  watched  Toft  out  of 
the  room  and,  alone  with  her,  he  looked  at  her.  He  saw 
that  her  hand  shook  as  she  filled  the  teapot,  that  her  lips 
quivered,  that  she  tried  to  speak  and  could  not.  And  he 
felt  an  infinite  love  and  pity,  though  he  drove  both  out  of 
his  voice  when  he  spoke.  "  Yes,  tea  first,"  he  said  coolly, 
as  he  took  off  his  riding  coat.  "I've  had  a  long  journey. 
You  must  take  another  cup  with  me.  You  can  leave  things 
to  me  now.  Yes,  two  lumps,  please,  and  not  too  strong." 
He  knocked  together  the  logs,  and  warmed  his  hands,  stoop- 
ing over  the  fire  with  his  back  to  her.  Then  he  took  his 
place  at  the  table,  and  when  he  had  drunk  half  a  cup  of 
tea,  "  Now,"  he  said,  "  will  you  tell  me  the  story  from  the 
beginning.  And  take  time.  More  haste,  less  speed,  you 
know." 

With  a  calmness  that  surprised  herself,  Mary  told  the 
tale.  She  described  the  first  alarm,  the  hunt  through  the 
house,  the  discoveries  in  the  bedroom,  Toft's  breakdown, 
last  of  all  the  search  through  the  park  and  the  finding  of 
the  flask. 

He  listened  gravely,  asking  a  question  now  and  then. 
When  she  had  done,  "What  of  Toft?"  he  inquired. 
"Not  been  very  active,  has  he?  Not  given  you  much 
help?" 

"No!    But  how  did  you  guess?"  she  asked  in  surprise. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  Toft  knows  more  than  he  has  told  you. 
For  the  rest,"  he  looked  at  her  kindly,  "  I  want  you  to  give 
up  the  hope  of  finding  your  uncle  alive.  I  have  none.  But 
I  think  I  can  promise  you  that  there  has  been  no  suffering. 
If  it  turns  out  as  I  imagine,  he  was  dead  before  he  was 
missed.  What  the  doctor  expected  has  happened.  That 
is  all." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"And  I  don't  want  to  say  more  until  I  know  for  certain. 
May  I  ring  for  Toft?" 

She  nodded.    He  rang,  and  after  a  pause,  during  which 


266  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

he  stood,  silent  and  waiting,  the  servant  came  in.  He  shot 
a  swift  glance  at  them,  and  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  Tell  Fetch  and  the  other  man  to  be  ready  to  start  with 
us  in  five  minutes,"  Basset  said.  "  Let  them  fetch  a 
hurdle,  and  do  you  put  a  mattress  on  it.  I  suppose — you 
made  sure  he  was  dead,  Toft,  before  you  left  him?  " 

The  man  flinched  before  the  sudden  question,  but  he 
showed  less  emotion  than  Mary.  Perhaps  he  had  expected 
it.  After  a  pause,  during  which  Basset  did  not  take  his 
eyes  from  him,  "  I  made  sure,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"As  God  sees  me,  I  did!  But  if  you  think  I  raised  a 
hand  to  him " 

"  I  don't!  "  Basset  said  sternly.  "  I  don't  think  so  badly 
of  you  as  that.  But  nothing  but  frankness  can  save  you 
now.  Is  he  in  the  Great  House?  " 

Toft  opened  his  mouth,  but  he  seemed  unable  to  speak. 
He  nodded. 

"What  about  the  flask?" 

"  I  dropped  it,"  the  man  muttered.  He  turned  a  shade 
paler.  "  I  could  not  bear  to  think  he  was  lying  there.  I 
thought  it  would  lead  the  search — that  way,  and  they  would 
find  him." 

"  I  see.  That's  enough  now.  Be  ready  to  start  at 
once." 

The  man  went  out.  "  Good  heavens !  "  Mary  cried.  She 
was  horror-stricken.  "  And  he  has  known  it  all  this  time ! 
Do  you  think  that  he — he  had  any  part " 

"  Oh  no.  He  was  alone  with  Mr.  Audley  when  he  col- 
lapsed, and  he  lost  his  head.  They  were  together  in  the 
Great  House — it  was  a  difficult  position — and  he  did  not 
see  his  way  to  explain.  He  may  have  seen  some  advantage 
in  gaining  time — I  don't  know.  The  first  thing  to  be  done 
is  to  bring  your  uncle  home.  I  will  see  to  that,  You  have 
borne  up  nobly — you  have  done  your  part.  Do  you  go  to 
bed  now." 

Something  in  his  tone,  and  in  his  thought  for  her, 


A  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  HALL  267 

brought  old  times  to  Mary's  mind  and  the  blood  to  her  pale 
cheek.  She  did  not  say  no,  but  she  would  not  go  to  bed. 
She  made  Etruria  come  to  her,  and  the  two  girls  sat  in 
the  parlor  listening  and  waiting,  moving  only  when  it  was 
necessary  to  snuff  the  candles.  It  was  a  grim  vigil.  An 
hour  passed,  two  hours.  At  length  they  caught  the  first 
distant  murmur,  the  tread  of  men  who  moved  slowly  and 
heavily  under  a  burden — there  are  few  who  have  not  at  one 
time  or  another  heard  that  sound.  Little  by  little  the 
shuffling  feet,  the  subdued  orders,  the  jar  of  a  stumbling 
bearer,  drew  nearer,  became  more  clear.  A  gust  of  wind 
swept  through  the  hall,  and  moaned  upwards  through  the 
ancient  house.  The  candles  on  the  table  flickered.  And 
fitill  the  two  sat  spell-bound,  clasping  cold  hands,  as  the 
unseen  procession  passed  over  the  threshold,  and  for  the 
last  time  John  Audley  came  home  to  sleep  amid  his  books 
— heedless  now  of  right  or  claim,  or  rank  or  blood. 


A  few  minutes  later  Basset  entered  the  parlor.  His  face 
betrayed  his  fatigue,  and  his  first  act  was  to  go  to  the 
sideboard  and  drink  a  glass  of  wine.  Mary  saw  that  his 
hand  shook  as  he  raised  the  glass,  and  gratitude  for  what 
he  had  done  for  her  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  He 
stood  a  moment,  leaning  in  utter  weariness  against  the  wall 
— he  had  ridden  far  that  day.  And  Mary  had  been  no 
woman  if  she  had  not  drawn  comparisons. 

Opportunity  had  served  him,  and  had  not  served  the 
other.  Nor,  had  her  betrothed  been  here,  could  he  have 
helped  her  in  this  pinch.  He  could  not  have  taken  Basset's 
place,  nor  with  all  the  will  in  the  world  could  he  have 
done  what  Basset  had  done. 

That  was  plain.  Yet  deep  down  in  her  there  stirred  a 
faint  resentment,  a  complaint  hardly  acknowledged.  Aud- 
ley was  not  here,  but  he  might  have  been.  It  was  his 
doing  that  she  had  not  told  her  uncle,  and  that  John 


268  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Audley  had  passed  away  in  ignorance.  It  was  his  doing 
that  in  her  trouble  she  had  had  to  lean  on  the  other.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  during  the  long  hours  of  the  day 
that  the  thought  had  come  to  her ;  and  though  she  had  put 
it  away,  as  she  put  it  away  now,  the  opening  flower  of  love 
is  delicate — the  showers  pass  but  leave  their  mark. 

When  Etruria  had  slipped  out,  and  left  them,  Basset 
came  forward,  and  warmed  himself  at  the  fire.  "  Perhaps 
it  is  as  well  you  did  not  go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  You  can  go 
now  with  an  easy  mind.  It  was  as  I  thought — he  lay  on 
the  stairs  of  the  Great  House  and  he  had  been  dead  many 
hours.  Dr.  Pepper  will  tell  us  more  to-morrow,  but  I  have 
no  doubt  that  he  died  of  syncope  brought  on  by  exertion. 
Toft  had  tried  to  give  him  brandy." 

Shocked  and  grieved,  yet  sensible  of  relief,  she  was  silent 
for  a  time.  She  had  known  John  Audley  less  than  a  year, 
but  he  had  been  good  to  her  in  his  way  and  she  sorrowed 
for  him.  But  at  least  she  was  freed  from  the  nightmare 
which  had  ridden  her  all  day.  Or  was  she?  "  May  I  know 
what  took  him  there  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice.  "  And 
Toft?" 

"  He  believed  that  there  were  papers  in  the  Great  House, 
which  would  prove  his  claim.  It  was  an  obsession.  He 
asked  me  more  than  once  to  go  with  him  and  search  for 
them,  and  I  refused.  He  fell  back  on  Toft.  They  had 
begun  to  search — so  Toft  tells  me — when  Mr.  Audley  was 
taken  ill.  Before  he  could  get  him  down  the  stairs,  the  end 
came.  He  sank  down  and  died." 

With  a  shudder  Mary  pictured  the  scene  in  the  empty 
house.  She  saw  the  light  of  the  lantern  fall  on  the 
huddled  group,  as  the  panic-stricken  servant  strove  to  pour 
brandy  between  the  lips  of  the  dying  man ;  and  truly  she 
was  thankful  that  in  this  strait  she  had  Basset  to  support 
her,  to  assist  her,  to  advise  her!  "It  is  very  dreadful," 
she  said.  "  I  do  not  wonder  that  Toft  gave  way.  But  had 
he — had  my  uncle — any  right  to  be  there  ?  " 


A  FOOTSTEP  IN  THE  HALL  269 

"  In  his  opinion,  yes.  And  if  the  papers  were  there,  they 
were  his  papers,  the  house  was  his,  all  was  his.  In  my 
opinion  he  was  wrong.  But  if  he  believed  anything,  he 
believed  that  he  was  justified  in  what  he  did." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that !  " 

"  There  must  be  an  inquest,  I  am  afraid/'  Basset  con- 
tinued. "  One  or  two  will  know,  and  one  or  two  more  will 
guess  what  Mr.  Audley's  errand  was.  But  Lord  Audley 
will  have  nothing  to  gain  by  moving  in  it.  And  if  only 
for  your  sake — but  you  must  go  to  bed.  Etruria  is  waiting 
in  the  hall.  I  will  send  her  to  you.  Good-night." 

She  stood  up.  She  wished  to  thank  him,  she  longed  to 
say  something,  anything,  which  would  convey  to  him  what 
his  coming  had  been  to  her.  But  she  could  not  find  words, 
she  was  tongue-tied.  And  Etruria  came  in. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  NEWS   FROM   RIDDSLEY 

THE  business  which  had  taken  Audley  away  on  the  morrow 
of  his  engagement  had  been  no  mere  pretext.  The  crisis  in 
political  life  which  Peel's  return  to  office  had  brought  about 
was  one  of  those  upheavals  which  are  of  rare  promise  to 
the  adventurous.  The  wise  foresaw  that  the  party  which 
Sir  Eobert  had  led  would  be  riven  from  top  to  bottom. 
Old  allies  would  be  flung  into  opposing  camps,  and  would 
be  reaching  out  every  way  for  support.  New  men  would  be 
learning  their  value,  and  to  those  who  dared,  all  things 
might  be  added.  Places,  prizes,  honors,  all  might  be  the 
reward  of  those  who  knew  how  to  choose  their  side  with 
prudence  and  to  support  it  with  courage.  The  clubs  were 
like  hives  of  bees.  All  day  long  and  far  into  the  winter 
night  Pall  Mall  roared  under  the  wheels  of  carriages. 
About  the  doors  of  \Vhitehall  Gardens,  where  Peel  lived, 
men  gathered  like  vultures  about  the  prey.  And,  lo,  in  a 
twinkling  and  as  by  magic  the  Conservative  party  vanished 
in  a  cloud  of  dust,  to  reappear  a  few  days  later  in  the  guise 
of  Peelites  and  Protectionists — Siamese  twins,  who  would 
not  live  together,  and  could  not  live  apart. 

At  such  a  time  it  was  Audley's  first  interest  to  be  as 
near  as  possible  to  the  hub  of  things  and  to  place  himself 
in  evidence  as  a  man  concerned.  He  had  a  little  influence 
in  the  Foreign  Office,  he  had  his  vote  in  the  House  of 
Lords.  And  though  he  did  not  think  that  these  would  suf- 
fice, he  trusted  that,  reinforced  by  the  belief  that  he  carried 
the  seat  at  Eiddsley  in  his  pocket,  they  might  be  worth 
something  to  him. 

2.70 


THE  NEWS  FROM  RIDDSLEY  271 

Unfortunately  he  could  deal  with  one  side  only.  If 
Stubbs  were  right  he  could  pass  for  the  owner  of  the 
borough  only  as  long  as  he  opposed  Sir  Robert.  He  could 
return  the  younger  Mottisfont  and  have  the  credit  of 
returning  him,  in  the  landed  interest;  but  however  much 
it  might  suit  his  book — and  it  was  of  that  book  he  was 
thinking  as  he  travelled  to  Lord  Seabourne's — he  could  not, 
if  Stubbs  were  right,  return  a  member  in  the  other 
interest. 

Now  when  a  man  can  sell  to  one  party  only,  tact  is 
needed  if  he  is  to  make  a  good  bargain.  Audley  saw  this. 
But  he  knew  his  own  qualities  and  he  did  not  despair. 
The  occasion  was  unique,  and  he  thought  that  it  would  be 
odd  if  he  could  not  pluck  from  the  confusion  something 
worth  having ;  some  place  under  the  Foreign  Office,  a  minor 
embassy,  a  mission,  something  worth  two,  or  three,  or  even 
four  thousand  a  year. 

He  travelled  up  to  town  thinking  steadily  of  the  course 
he  would  pursue,  and  telling  himself  that  he  must  be  as 
cunning  as  the  serpent  and  as  gentle  as  the  dove.  He  must 
let  no  whip  cajole  him,  and  no  Tory  browbeat  him.  For 
he  had  only  this  to  look  to  now:  a  rich  marriage  was  no 
longer  among  the  possibilities.  Not  that  he  regretted  his 
decision  in  that  matter  as  yet,  but  at  times  he  wondered 
at  it.  He  told  himself  that  he  had  been  impulsive,  and 
setting  this  down  to  the  charms  of  his  mistress  he  gave 
himself  credit  for  disinterested  motives.  And  then,  too,  he 
had  made  himself  safe! 

Still  there  were  difficulties  in  the  way  of  his  ambition, 
which  appeared  more  clearly  at  Seabourne  Castle,  where 
Lady  Adela  was  a  fellow-guest,  and  in  London  than  at 
Riddsley;  difficulties  of  shrewd  whips,  who  knew  the  his- 
tory of  the  borough  by  heart,  and  had  figures  at  their 
fingers'  ends;  difficulties  of  arrogant  leaders,  who  talked  of 
his  duty  to  the  land  and  assumed  that  duty  was  its  own 
reward.  Above  all,  there  was  the  difficulty  that  he  could 


272  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

only  sell  to  the  party  that  was  out  of  office  and  must  pay 
in  promises — bills  drawn  at  long  dates  and  for  which  no 
discounters  could  be  found.  For  who  could  say  when  the 
landed  interest,  made  up  of  stupid  bull-headed  men  like 
Lord  George  Bentinck  and  Stubbs,  a  party  without  a  leader 
and  with  divided  counsels,  would  be  in  power?  They  were 
a  mob  rather  than  a  party,  and  like  every  other  mob  were 
ready  to  sacrifice  future  prospects  to  present  revenge. 

That  was  a  terrible  difficulty,  and  his  lordship  did  not  see 
how  he  was  to  get  over  it.  To  the  Peelites  who  could  pay, 
cash  down,  in  honors  and  places,  he  could  not  sell.  Nor 
to  the  Liberals  under  little  Lord  John,  though  to  their 
promises  some  prospect  of  office  gave  value.  So  that  at 
times  he  almost  despaired.  For  he  had  only  this  to  look  to 
now;  if  he  failed  in  this  he  would  have  love  and  he  would 
have  Mary,  and  he  would  have  safety,  but  very  little 
besides.  If  his  word  had  not  been  given  to  Mary,  he  might 
almost  have  reconsidered  the  matter. 

The  die  was  cast,  however.  Yet  many  a  man  has  be- 
lieved this,  and  then  one  fine  morning  he  has  begun  to 
wonder  if  it  is  so — the  cast  was  such  an  unlucky,  if  not  an 
unfair  one !  And  presently  he  has  seen  that  at  the  cost  of 
a  little  pride,  or  a  little  consistency,  or  what  not,  he  might 
call  the  game  drawn.  That  is,  he  might — if  he  were  not 
the  soul  of  honor  that  he  is! 

By  and  by  under  the  stress  of  circumstances  his  lordship 
began  to  consider  that  point.  He  did  not  draw  back,  he 
did  not  propose  to  draw  back;  but  he  thought  that  he 
would  keep  the  door  behind  him  ajar.  To  begin  with,  he 
did  not  overwhelm  Mary  with  letters — his  public  engage- 
ments were  so  many ;  and  when  he  wrote  he  wrote  on  ordi- 
nary matters.  His  pen  ran  more  glibly  on  party  gossip 
than  on  their  joint  future;  he  wrote  as  he  might  have 
written  to  a  cousin  rather  than  to  his  sweetheart.  But  he 
told  himself  that  Mary  was  not  versed  in  love  letters,  nor 
very  passionate.  She  would  expect  no  more. 


THE  NEIVS  FROM  RIDDSLEY  273 

Then  one  fine  morning  he  had  a  letter  from  Stubbs, 
which  told  him  that  there  was  to  be  a  real  contest  in  Ridds- 
ley,  that  the  Horn  and  Corn  platform  was  to  be  chal- 
lenged, and  that  the  assailant  was  Peter  Basset.  Stubbs 
added  that  the  Working  Men's  Institute  was  beside  itself 
with  joy,  that  Hatton's  and  Banfield's  hands  were  solid  for 
repeal,  and  that  the  fight  would  be  real,  but  that  the  issue 
was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

The  news  was  not  altogether  unwelcome.  The  contest 
gave  value  to  the  seat,  and  increased  my  lord's  claim;  on 
that  party,  unfortunately,  they  could  only  pay  in  promises. 
It  also  tickled  my  lord's  vanity.  His  rival,  unhorsed  in  the 
lists  of  love,  had  betaken  himself,  it  seemed,  to  other  lists, 
in  which  he  would  as  surely  be  beaten. 

"  Poor  beggar !  "  Audley  thought.  "  He  was  always  a 
day  late !  Alwa}"s  came  in  second !  I  don't  know  that  I 
ever  knew  anything  more  like  him  than  this!  From  the 
day  I  first  saw  him,  standing  behind  John  Audley's  counsel 
at  the  suit,  right  to  this  day,  he  has  always  been  a 
loser!" 

And  he  smiled  as  he  recalled  the  poor  figure  Basset  had 
cut  as  a  squire  of  dames. 

A  week  later  Stubbs  wrote  again,  and  this  time  his  news 
was  startling.  John  Audley  was  dead.  Stubbs  wrote  in 
the  first  alarm  of  the  discovery,  word  of  which  had  just 
been  brought  into  the  town.  He  knew  no  particulars,  but 
thought  that  his  lordship  should  be  among  the  first  to  learn 
the  fact.  He  added  a  hasty  postscript,  in  which  he  said 
that  Mr.  Basset  was  proving  himself  a  stronger  candidate 
than  either  side  had  expected,  and  that  not  only  were  the 
brass-workers  with  him  but  a  few  of  the  smaller  fry  of 
tradesmen,  caught  by  his  cry  of  cheap  bread.  Stubbs 
closed,  however,  with  the  assurance  that  the  landed  interest 
would  carry  it  by  a  solid  majority. 

"  D — n  their  impudence !  "  Lord  Audley  exclaimed. 
And  after  that  he  gave  no  further  heed  to  the  postscript. 


274  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

As  long  as  the  issue  was  certain,  the  election  was  Mottis- 
font's  and  Stubbs's  affair.  As  for  Basset,  the  more  money 
he  chose  to  waste  the  better. 

But  John  Audley's  death  was  news — it  was  great  news! 
So  he  was  gone  at  last — the  man  whom  he  had  always 
regarded  as  a  menace !  Whom  he  had  feared,  whose  very 
name  had  rung  mischief  in  his  ears,  by  whom,  during 
many  a  sleepless  night,  he  had  seen  himself  ousted  from  all 
that  he  had  gained  from  title,  income,  lands,  position!  He 
was  gone  at  last ;  and  gone  with  him  were  the  menace,  the 
danger,  the  night  alarms,  the  whole  pile  of  gloomy  fancies 
which  apprehension  had  built  up! 

The  relief  was  immense.  Audley  read  the  letter  twice, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  weight  was  lifted  from  him. 
John  Audley  was  dead.  In  his  dressing-gown  and  smoking- 
cap  my  lord  paced  his  rooms  at  the  Albany  and  said  again 
and  again,  "He's  dead!  By  gad,  he's  dead!"  Later,  he 
could  not  refrain  from  the  thought  that  if  the  death  had 
taken  place  a  few  weeks  earlier,  in  that  first  attack,  he 
would  have  been  under  no  temptation  to  make  himself  safe. 
As  it  was — but  he  did  not  pursue  the  thought.  He  only 
reflected  that  he  had  followed  love  handsomely ! 

A  day  later  a  third  letter  came  from  Stubbs,  and  one 
from  Mary.  The  tidings  they  brought  were  such  that  my 
lord's  face  fell  as  he  read  them,  and  he  swore  more  than 
once  over  them.  John  Audley,  the  lawyer  wrote,  had  been 
found  dead  in  the  Great  House.  He  had  been  found  lying 
on  the  stairs,  a  lantern  beside  him.  Stubbs  had  visited 
the  house  the  moment  the  facts  became  known.  He  had 
examined  the  muniment  room  and  found  part  of  the  wall 
broken  down,  and  in  the  room  two  boxes  of  papers  which 
had  been  taken  from  a  recess  which  the  breach  had  dis- 
closed. One  of  the  boxes  had  been  broken  open.  At 
present  Stubbs  could  only  say  that  the  papers  had  been  dis- 
turbed, he  could  not  say  whether  any  were  missing.  He 
begged  his  lordship — he  was  much  disturbed,  it  was  clear — 


THE  NEWS  FROM  RIDDSLEY  275 

to  come  down  as  quickly  as  possible.  In  the  meantime,  he 
would  go  through  the  papers  and  prepare  a  report.  They 
appeared  to  be  family  documents,  old,  and  not  hitherto 
known  to  his  lordship's  advisers. 

Audley  was  still  swearing,  when  his  man  came  in. 
"  Will  you  wear  the  black  velvet  vest,  my  lord?  "  he  asked, 
"or  the  flowered  satin?" 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  his  master  cried — so  furiously  that 
the  man  fled  without  more. 

When  he  was  gone  Audley  read  the  letter  again,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  in  making  himself  safe  he  had 
builded  more  wisely  than  he  knew.  For  who  could  say 
what  John  Audley  had  found?  Or  who,  through  those 
papers,  had  a  hold  on  him?  He  remembered  the  man- 
servant's visit,  and  the  thing  looked  black.  Very  black. 
Alive  or  dead,  John  Audley  threatened  him. 

Then  he  felt  bitterly  angry  with  Stubbs.  There  had  been 
the  most  shocking  carelessness.  Had  he  not  himself 
pointed  out  what  was  going  on?  Had  he  not  put  it  to 
Stubbs  that  the  place  should  be  guarded  ?  But  the  lawyer, 
stubborn  in  his  belief  that  there  were  no  papers  there,  had 
done  nothing.  Nothing!  And  this  had  come  of  it !  This 
which  might  spell  ruin! 

Or,  no.  Stubbs  had  indeed  done  his  best  to  ruin  him, 
but  he  had  saved  himself.  He  turned  with  relief  to  Mary's 
letter. 

It  was  written  sadly,  and  it  was  rather  cold.  He  noticed 
this,  but  her  tone  did  not  alarm  him,  because  he  set  it  down 
to  the  reserve  of  his  own  letters. 

He  took  care  to  answer  this  letter,  however,  by  that  day's 
post,  and  he  wrote  more  affectionately  than  before — as  if 
her  trouble  had  broken  down  a  reserve  natural  to  him.  He 
wrote  with  tact,  too.  He  could  not  attend  the  funeral ;  the 
dead  man's  feelings  towards  him  forbade  that  he  should. 
But  his  agent  would  attend,  and  his  carriage  and  servants. 
When  he  had  written  the  letter  he  was  satisfied  with  it; 


276  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

more  than  satisfied  when  he  had  added  a  phrase  implying 
that  their  happiness  would  not  long  be  postponed. 

After  he  had  posted  the  letter  he  wondered  if  she  would 
expect  him  to  come  to  her.  It  was  a  lonely  house  and  with, 
death  in  it — but  no,  in  the  circumstances  it  was  not  pos- 
sible. He  would  go  down  to  The  Butterflies  next  day. 
That  would  be  the  most  that  could  be  expected  of  him.  He 
would  be  at  hand  if  she  needed  anything. 

But  when  the  next  day  came  he  did  not  go.  A  letter 
from  a  man  belonging  to  the  inner  circle  of  politics  reached 
him.  The  great  man,  who  had  been  and  might  be  again 
in  the  Cabinet,  suggested  a  meeting.  Nothing  came  of  the 
meeting — it  was  one  of  those  will-of-the-wisps  that  draw 
the  unwary  on  until  they  find  themselves  committed.  But 
it  kept  Audley  in  London,  and  it  was  not  until  the  evening 
of  Monday,  the  day  of  the  funeral,  that,  chilled  and  out  of 
temper,  after  posting  the  last  stage  from  Stafford,  he 
reached  his  quarters  at  The  Butterflies,  and  gave  short 
answers  to  Mrs.  Jenkinson's  inquiries  after  his  health. 

"  Poor  dear  young  man !  "  she  said,  when  she  rejoined 
her  sisters.  "  He  has  a  kind  heart  and  he  feels  it.  Mr. 
John  was  Mr.  John,  and  odd,  very  odd.  But  still  he  was 
an  Audley ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

^ 

THE  ADDLEY  BIBLE 

ANGRY  with  Stubbs  as  he  was — and  with  some  reason — 
Lord  Audley  was  not  the  man  to  bite  off  his  nose  to  spite 
his  face.  He  pondered  long  what  he  would  say  to  him, 
and  more  than  once  he  rehearsed  the  scene,  toning  down 
this  phrase  and  pruning  that.  For  he  knew  that  after  all 
Stubbs  was  a  good  agent.  He  was  honest,  he  thought  much 
and  made  much  of  the  property,  and  nothing  would  be 
gained  by  changing  him.  Then  his  influence  in  the  bor- 
ough was  such  that  even  if  my  lord  quarrelled  with  him, 
Mottisfont  would  hardly  venture  to  discard  him. 

For  these  reasons  Audley  had  no  mind  to  break  with 
his  agent.  But  he  did  wish  to  punish  him.  He  djd  wish 
to  make  his  displeasure  felt.  And  he  wished  this  the  more 
because  he  began  to  suspect  that  if  Stubbs  had  been  less 
bigoted,  he  might  have  carried  the  borough  the  way  he 
wished — the  way  that  would  pay  him  best. 

Stubbs  on  his  side  foresaw  an  unpleasant  quarter  of  an 
hour.  He  had  been  too  easy.  He  had  paid  too  little  heed 
to  John  Audley's  trespasses,  and  had  let  things  pass  that 
he  should  have  stopped.  Then,  too,  he  had  been  over- 
positive  that  there  were  no  more  documents  at  the  Great 
House.  Evil  had  not  come  of  this,  but  it  might  have;  and 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  hear  some  hard  words. 

But  when  he  obeyed  my  lord's  summons  his  reception 
tried  his  patience.  A  bright  fire  burned  in  the  grate,  half 
a  dozen  wax  candles  shed  a  softened  light  on  the  room. 
The  wine  stood  at  Audley's  elbow,  and  his  glass  was  half 
full.  But  he  did  not  give  Stubbs  even  two  fingers,  nor  did 

277 


278  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

he  ask  him  to  take  wine.  And  his  tone  was  colder  than 
Stubbs  had  ever  known  it.  He  made  it  plain  that  he  was 
receiving  a  servant,  and  a  servant  with  whom  he  was  dis- 
pleased. 

Still  he  was  Lord  Audley,  something  of  divine  right  sur- 
vived in  him,  and  Stubbs  knew  that  he  had  been  himself  in 
the  wrong.  He  took  the  bull  by  the  horns.  "  You  are 
displeased,  my  lord,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  seat  to  which 
the  other  pointed.  "  And  I  admit  with  some  cause.  I  have 
been  mistaken  and,  perhaps,  a  little  remiss!  But  it  is  the 
exception,  and  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  me.  I  am  sorry,  my 
lord,"  he  added  frankly.  "  I  can  say  no  more  than  that." 

"  And  much  good  that  will  do  us,"  my  lord  growled, 
"  in  certain  events,  Mr.  Stubbs !  " 

"  At  any  rate  it  will  be  a  sharp  lesson  to  me,"  Stubbs 
replied.  "  It  has  cost  Mr.  Audley  his  life." 

"  He  had  no  right  to  be  there !  " 

"  No,  my  lord,  he  had  no  right  to  be  there.  But  he 
would  not  have  been  there  if  I  had  seen  that  the  place  was 
properly  secured.  I  take  all  the  blame." 

"  Unfortunately,"  the  other  flung  at  him  contemptuously, 
"you  cannot  pay  the  penalty;  that  may  fall  upon  me. 
Anyway,  it  was  a  d — d  silly  thing,  Mr.  Stubbs,  to  leave  the 
place  open,  and  you  see  what  has  come  of  it." 

"  I  cannot  deny  it,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  said  patiently. 
"  But  I  hope  that  nothing  will  come  of  it.  I  will  tell  your 
lordship  first  what  my  own  observations  were.  I  made  a 
careful  examination  of  the  two  chests  of  papers  and  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Audley  had  done  little  more 
than  open  the  first  when  he  was  taken  ill.  One  chest 
showed  some  disturbance.  The  upper  layer  had  been  taken 
out  and  replaced.  The  other  box  had  not  been  opened." 

"  What  if  he  found  what  he  wanted  and  searched  no 
further?"  Audley  asked  grimly.  "But  the  point  of  the 
matter  does  not  lie  there.  It  lies  in  another  direction,  as  I 
should  have  thought  any  lawyer  would  see." 


THE  AUDLEY  BIBLE  279 

"My  lord?" 

"  Who  was  with  him  ?  "  Lord  Audley  rapped  the  table 
with  his  fingers.  "  That's  the  point,  sir !  Who  was  with 
him  ?  " 

"I  think  I  have  ascertained  that,"  Stubbs  replied,  less 
put  out  than  his  employer  expected.  "  I  have  little  doubt 
that  his  man-servant,  a  man  called  Toft,  was  with  him." 

"  Ha !  "  the  other  exclaimed,  "  I  expected  that ! " 

Stubbs  raised  his  eyebrows.  "You  know  him,  my 
lord?" 

"  I  know  him  for  a  d — d  blackmailing  villain ! "  Audley 
broke  out.  Then  he  remembered  himself.  He  had  not  told 
Stubbs  of  the  blackmailing.  And,  after  all,  what  did  it 
matter?  He  had  made  himself  safe.  Whatever  papers  he 
had  found,  John  Audley  was  dead,  and  John  Audley's 
heiress  was  going  to  be  his  wife !  The  danger  to  him  was 
naught,  and  the  blackmailer  was  already  disarmed.  Still 
he  was  not  going  to  spare  Stubbs  by  telling  him  that.  In- 
stead, "What  did  the  boxes  contain?"  he  asked  un- 
graciously. 

"  Xothing  of  any  value  when  I  examined  them,  my  lord. 
Old  surrenders,  fines,  and  recoveries  with  some  ancient  ter- 
riers. I  could  find  no  document  among  them  that  related 
to  the  title." 

"  That  may  be,"  Audley  retorted.  "  But  John  Audley 
expected  to  find  something  that  related  to  the  title!  He 
knew  more  than  we  knew.  He  knew  that  those  boxes 
existed,  and  he  knew  what  he  expected  to  find  in  them." 

"  Xo  doubt.  And  if  your  lordship  had  given  me  a  little 
more  time  I  should  have  explained  before  this  that  he  was 
disappointed  in  his  expectation ;  nay,  more,  that  it  was  that 
disappointment — as  I  have  little  doubt — that  caused  his 
collapse  and  death." 

"  How  the  devil  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  If  your  lordship  will  have  patience  I  will  explain," 
Stubbs  said,  a  gleam  of  malice  in  his  eyes.  He  rose  from 


28o  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

his  seat  and  took  from  a  chair  beside  the  door  a  parcel 
which  he  had  laid  there  on  his  entrance.  "  I  have  here 
that  which  he  found,  and  that  which  I  don't  doubt  caused 
his  death." 

"  The  deuce  you  have !  "  Audley  cried,  rising  to  his  feet 
in  his  surprise.  And  he  watched  with  all  his  eyes  while  the 
lawyer  slowly  untied  the  tape  and  spread  wide  the  wrappers. 
The  action  disclosed  a  thick  quarto  volume  bound  in  blue 
leather,  sprinkled  on  the  sides  with  silver  butterflies,  and 
stamped  with  the  arms  of  Audley.  "  Good  G — d !  "  Audley 
continued,  "  the  Family  Bible !  " 

"  Yes,  the  Family  Bible/'  the  lawyer  answered,  gazing 
at  it  complacently,  "  about  which  there  was  so  much  talk 
at  the  opening  of  the  suit.  It  was  identified  by  a  score  of 
references,  called  for  by  both  sides,  sought  for  high  and 
low,  and  never  produced ! " 

"  And  here  it  is !  " 

"  Here  it  is.  Apparently  at  some  time  or  other  it  went 
out  of  fashion,  was  laid  aside  and  lost  sight  of,  and  even- 
tually bricked  up  with  a  mass  of  old  and  valueless  papers/' 

Audley  steadied  his  voice  with  difficulty.  "  And  what 
is  its  effect?  "  he  asked. 

"Its  effect,  my  lord,  is  to  corroborate  our  case  in  every 
particular/'  the  lawyer  answered  proudly.  "  Its  entries 
form  a  history  of  the  family  for  a  long  period,  and  amongst 
them  is  an  entry  of  the  marriage  of  Peter  Paravicini 
Audley  on  the  date  alleged  by  us;  an  entry  made  in  the 
handwriting  of  his  father,  and  one  of  eleven  made  by  the 
same  hand.  This  entry  agrees  in  every  particular  with  the 
suspected  statement  in  the  register  which  we  support,  and 
fully  bears  out  our  case." 

"  And  John  Audley  found  that  ?  "  my  lord  cried,  after  a 
moment  of  pregnant  silence.  He  had  regained  his  com- 
posure. His  eyes  were  shining. 

"  Yes,  and  it  killed  him,"  Stubbs  said  gravely.  "  Doubt- 
less he  came  on  it  at  the  moment  when  he  thought  success 


THE  AUDLEY  BIBLE  281 

was  within  his  grasp,  and  the  shock  was  too  much  for  him." 

"  Good  Lord !    Good  Lord !    And  how  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  From  Mr.  Basset/' 

"Basset?" 

"  Who  obtained  it,  I  have  no  doubt,  from  the  man,  Toft, 
either  by  pressure  or  purchase/' 

"  The  rascal !  The  d — d  rascal  \  He  ought  to  be  prose- 
cuted!" 

"  Possibly,"  the  lawyer  agreed.  "  But  he  was  only  an 
accomplice,  and  we  could  not  prosecute  him  without  in- 
volving others;  without  bringing  Mr.  John's  name  into  it 
— and  he  is  dead.  As  a  fact,  I  have  passed  my  word  to 
Mr.  Basset  that  no  steps  should  be  taken  against  him,  and  I 
think  your  lordship  will  agree  with  me  that  I  could  not 
do  otherwise." 

"  Still — the  man  ought  to  be  punished !  " 

"  He  ought,  but  if  any  one  has  paid  for  his  silence  or 
for  this  book,  it  is  not  we." 

After  that  there  was  a  little  more  talk  about  the  Bible, 
which  my  lord  examined  with  curiosity,  about  the  singu- 
larity of  its  discovery,  about  the  handwriting  of  the  entries, 
which  the  lawyer  said  he  could  himself  prove.  Stubbs  was 
made  free  of  the  decanter,  and  of  everything  but  my  lord's 
mind.  For  Audley  said  nothing  of  his  engagement  to 
Mary — the  moment  was  hardly  opportune;  and  nothing — 
it  was  too  late  in  the  day — of  Toft's  former  exploit.  He 
stood  awhile  absorbed  and  dreaming,  staring  through  the 
haze  of  the  candles.  Here  at  last  was  final  and  complete 
relief.  No  more  fears,  no  more  calculations.  Here  was 
an  end  at  last  of  the  feeling  that  there  was  a  mine  under 
him.  Traditions,  when  they  are  bred  in  the  bone,  die 
slowly,  and  many  a  time  he  had  been  hard  put  to  it  to  resist 
the  belief,  so  long  whispered,  that  his  branch  was  illegiti- 
mate. At  last  the  tradition  was  dead.  There  was  no  more 
need  to  play  for  safety.  What  he  had  he  had,  and  no  one 
could  take  it  from  him. 


282  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

And  presently  the  talk  passed  to  the  election. 

"  There's  no  doubt,"  Stubbs  said,  "  that  Mr.  Basset  is  a 
stronger  candidate  than  either  side  expected." 

"  But  he's  no  politician !    He  has  no  experience !  " 

The  lawyer  sat  forward,  with  his  legs  apart  and  a  hand 
on  either  knee.  "  No,"  he  said.  "  But  the  truth  is,  though 
it  is  beyond  me  how  a  gentleman  of  his  birth  can  be  so 
misled,  he  believes  what  he  says — and  it  goes  down !  " 

"  Is  he  a  speaker  ?  " 

"  He  is  and  he  isn't !  I  slipped  in  myself  one  night  at 
the  back  of  one  of  the  new-fangled  meetings  his  precious 
League  has  started.  I  wanted  to  see,  my  lord,  if  any  of 
our  people  were  there.  I  heard  him  for  ten  minutes,  and 
at  the  start  he  was  so  jumpy  I  thought  that  he  would  break 
down.  But  when  he  got  going — well,  I  saw  how  it  was 
and  what  took  the  people.  He  believes  what  he  says,  and 
he  says  it  plain.  The  way  he  painted  Peel  giving  up 
everything,  sacrificing  himself,  sacrificing  his  party,  sacri- 
ficing his  reputation,  sacrificing  all  to  do  what  he  thought 
was  right — the  devil  himself  wouldn't  have  known  his 
own ! " 

"  He  almost  converted  you  ?  " 

The  lawyer  laughed  disdainfully.  "  Not  a  jot !  "  he  said. 
"But  I  saw  that  he  would  convert  some.  Not  many/' 
Stubbs  continued  complacently.  "  There's  some  that  mean 
to,  but  will  think  better  of  it  at  the  last.  And  some  would 
but  daren't !  Two  or  three  may.  Still,  he's  such  a  candi- 
date as  we've  not  had  against  us  before,  my  lord.  And  with 
cheap  bread  and  the  preachings  of  this  plaguy  League — I 
shall  be  glad  when  it  is  over." 

Audley  rose  and  poked  the  fire.  "  You're  not  going  to 
tell  me,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was  unnaturally  even, 
"  that  he's  going  to  beat  us  ?  You're  not  going,  after  all 
the  assurances  you've  given  me " 

"  God  forbid,"  Stubbs  replied.    "  No,  no,  my  lord !    Mr. 


THE  AUDLEY  BIBLE  283 

Mottisfont  will  hold  the  seat !  I  mean  only  that  it  will  be 
a  nearer  thing — a  nearer  thing  than  it  has  been.'' 

He  had  no  idea  that  his  patron  was  fighting  a  new  spasm 
of  anger;  that  the  thought  that  he  might,  after  all,  have 
dealt  with  Sir  Bobert,  the  thought  that  he  might,  after  all, 
have  bargained  with  the  party  in  power,  was  almost  too 
much  for  the  other's  self-command.  It  was  too  late  now, 
of  course.  It  was  too  late.  But  if  the  contest  was  to  be  so 
close,  surely  if  he  had  cast  his  weight  on  the  other  side,  he 
might  have  carried  it ! 

And  what  if  the  seat  were  lost?  Then  this  stubborn, 
confident  fool,  who  was  as  bigoted  in  his  faith  as  the 
narrowest  Leaguer  of  them  all,  had  done  him  a  deadly 
injury!  My  lord  bit  off  an  oath,  and  young  as  he  was, 
his  face  wore  a  very  apoplectic  look  as  he  turned  round, 
after  laying  down  the  poker. 

"  That  reminds  me,"  the  lawyer  resumed,  blandly  uncon- 
scious of  the  crisis,  and  of  the  other's  anger.  "  I  meant  to 
ask  your  lordship  what's  to  be  done  about  the  two  Boshams. 
You  remember  them,  my  lord?  They've  had  the  small 
holding  by  the  bridge  with  the  water  meadow  time  out  of 
mind — for  seven  generations  they  say.  They  pay  eighteen 
pounds  as  joint  tenants,  and  have  votes  as  old  free- 
men." 

"  What  of  them  ?  "  the  other  asked  impatiently. 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  they'll  not  support  us." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  they'll  not  vote  for  Mottisfont?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  Stubbs  answered.  "  They're  as  stub- 
born as  their  own  pigs!  I've  spoken  to  them  myself  and 
told  them  that  they've  only  one  thing  to  expect  if  they 
go  against  their  landlord." 

"  And  that  is,  to  go  out !  "  Audley  said.  "  Well,  make 
that  quite  clear  to  them,  Stubbs,  and  depend  upon  it — 
they'll  see  differently." 

"  I'm  afraid  they  won't,  my  lord,  and  that  is  why  I 
trouble  you.  They  voted  against  the  last  lord — twice,  I  am 


284  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

told — and  the  story  goes  that  he  laid  his  stick  about  Ben 
Bosham's  shoulders  in  the  street — that  would  be  in  '31, 
I  fancy.  But  he  didn't  turn  them  out — they'd  been  in  the 
holding  so  long." 

"  Two  votes  may  have  been  nothing  to  him,"  Audley 
replied  coldly.  "  They  are  something  to  me.  They  will 
vote  for  Mottisfont  or  they  will  go,  Stubbs.  That  is  flat, 
and  do  you  see  to  it.  There,  I'm  tired  now,"  he  continued, 
rising  from  his  seat. 

Stubbs  rose.  "I  don't  know  if  your  lordship's  heard 
about  Mr.  John's  will !  " 

"  No !  "  My  lord  straightened  himself.  Earlier  in  the 
day  he  had  given  some  thought  to  this,  and  had  weighed 
Mary  Audley's  chances  of  inheriting  what  John  Audley 
had.  "  No ! "  he  said.  And  he  waited. 

"  He  has  left  the  young  lady  eight  thousand  pounds." 

"  Eight  thousand  !  "  Audley  ejaculated.  "  Do  you  mean 
» — he  must  have  had  more  than  that?  He  wasted  a  small 
fortune  in  that  confounded  suit.  But  he  must  have  had 
— four  times  that,  man !  " 

"  The  residue  goes  to  Mr.  Basset." 

"  Basset ! "  Audley  cried,  his  face  flushed  with  passion. 
"  To  Basset  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Good  G— d !  " 

"  So  I'm  told,  my  lord,"  the  lawyer  answered,  staggered 
by  the  temper  in  which  his  employer  received  the 
news. 

"  But  Miss  Audley  was  his  own  niece !  Basset  ?  He 
was  no  relation  to  him !  " 

"  They  were  very  old  friends." 

"  That's  no  reason  why  he  should  leave  him  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds  of  Audley  money !  Money  taken  straight  out 
of  the  Audley  property !  Thirty  thousand " 

"  Not  thirty,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  ventured.  "  Not  much 
above  twenty,  I  should  say.  If  you  put  it " 

"If  I  put  it  that  you  were — something  of  a  fool  at 
times,"  the  angry  man  cried,  "I  shouldn't  be  far  wrong! 


THE  AUDLEY  BIBLE  285 

But  there,  there,  never  mind !  Good-night !  Can't  you  see 
I'm  dead  tired  and  hardly  know  what  I  am  saying?  Come 
to-morrow !  Come  at  eleven  in  the  morning." 

Stubbs  hardly  knew  how  to  take  it.  But  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  he  made  the  best  of  the  apology,  mut- 
tered something,  and  got  out  of  the  room.  On  the  stairs  he 
relieved  his  feelings  by  a  word  or  two.  In  the  street  he 
wondered  what  had  taken  the  man  so  suddenly.  Surely 
he  had  not  expected  to  get  the  money ! 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  FRIEND  IN   NEED 

BASSET  had  obtained  the  missing  Bible  very  much  in  the 
way  the  lawyer  had  indicated — partly  by  purchase  and 
partly  by  pressure.  Shocked  as  Toft  had  been  by  his 
master's  sudden  death,  he  had  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  remember  that  he  might  make  something  of  what  they 
had  discovered  could  he  secrete  it;  and  with  every  nerve 
quivering  the  man  had  fought  down  panic  until  he  had 
hidden  the  parcel  which  had  caused  John  Audley's  collapse. 
Then  he  had  given  way.  He  had  turned  his  back  on  the 
Great  House,  and  shuddering,  clutched  at  by  grisly  hands, 
pursued  by  phantom  feet,  he  had  fled  through  the  night 
and  the  Yew  Walk,  to  hide,  for  the  present  at  least,  his 
part  in  the  tragedy. 

Basset,  however,  had  known  too  much  for  him,  and  the 
servant,  shaken  by  what  had  happened,  had  not  been  able 
to  persist  in  his  denials.  But  to  tell  and  to  give  were  two 
things,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  he  would  have  released 
his  plunder  if  Basset  had  not  in  the  last  resort  disclosed 
to  him  Miss  Audley's  engagement  to  her  cousin. 

The  change  which  this  news  wrought  in  Toft  had  aston- 
ished Basset.  The  man  had  gone  down  under  it  as  under 
a  blow  on  the  head.  The  spirit  had  gone  out  of  him,  and 
he  had  taken  with  thankfulness  the  sum  which  Basset,  as 
John  Audley's  representative,  had  offered  him — rather  out 
of  pity  than  because  it  seemed  necessary.  He  had  given 
up  the  parcel  on  the  night  before  the  funeral. 

386 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  287 

The  book  in  his  hands,  Basset  had  hastened  to  be  rid  of 
it.  Cynically  he  had  told  himself  that  he  did  so,  lest  he 
too  might  give  way  to  the  ignoble  impulse  to  withhold  it. 
Audley  was  his  rival,  but  that  he  might  have  forgiven,  as 
men  forgive  great  wrongs  and  in  time  smile  on  their 
enemies.  But  the  little  wrongs,  who  can  forgive  these — 
the  slight,  the  sneer,  the  assumption  of  superiority,  the 
upper  hand  lightly  taken  and  insolently  held? 

Not  Peter  Basset,  at  a  moment  when  he  was  being  tried 
almost  beyond  bearing.  For  every  day,  between  the  finding 
of  the  body  and  the  funeral,  and  often  more  than  once  in 
the  day  he  had  to  see  Mary,  he  had  to  advise  her,  he  had — 
for  there  was  no  one  else — to  explain  matters  to  her,  to 
bear  her  company.  He  had  to  quit  this  meeting  and  that 
Ordinary — for  election  business  stops  for  no  man — and  to 
go  to  her.  He  had  to  find  her  alone  and  to  see  her  face 
light  up  at  his  entrance;  he  had  to  look  back,  and  to  see 
her  watch  him  as  he  rode  from  the  door.  Nor  when  he  was 
absent  from  the  Gatehouse  was  it  any  better;  nay,  it  was 
worse.  For  then  he  was  forced  to  think  of  her  as  alone 
and  sad,  he  had  to  picture  her  brooding  over  the  fire,  he 
had  to  fancy  her  at  her  solitary  meals.  And  alike,  with 
her  or  away  from  her,  he  had  to  damp  down  the  old  passion, 
as  well  as  the  new  regret  that  each  day  and  each  hour  and 
every  kind  look  on  her  part  fanned  into  a  flame.  Nor  was 
even  this  all;  every  day  he  saw  that  she  grew  more  grave, 
daily  he  saw  her  color  fading,  and  he  did  not  know  what 
qualms  she  masked,  what  nightmares  she  might  he  suffer- 
ing in  that  empty  house — nay,  what  cause  for  unhappiness 
she  might  be  hiding.  At  last — it  was  the  afternoon  before 
the  funeral — he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  he  spoke. 

"  You  ought  not  to  be  here !  "  he  said  bluntly.  "  Why 
doesn't  Audley  fetch  you  away?  "  He  was  standing  before 
the  fire  drawing  on  his  gloves  as  he  prepared  to  leave. 
The  room  was  full  of  shadows,  for  he  had  chosen  a  time 
when  she  could  not  see  his  face. 


288  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

She  tried  to  fence  with  him.  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  said, 
"  that  some  formalities  will  be  necessary  before  he  can  do 
that." 

"Then  why  is  he  not  here?"  he  retorted.  "Or  why 
doesn't  he  send  some  one  to  be  with  you?  You  ought  not 
to  be  alone.  Mrs.  Jenkinson  at  The  Butterflies — she's  a 
good  soul — you  know  her  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  She'd  come  at  a  word.  I  know  it's  not  my  busi- 
ness  " 

"Or  you  would  go  about  it,  I  am  sure,"  she  replied 
gently,  "  with  as  much  respect  to  my  wishes  as  Lord  Audley 
shows." 

"Your  wishes?    But  why — why  do  you  wish " 

"  Why  do  I  wish  to  be  alone  ?  "  she  answered.  "  Be- 
cause I  owe  something  to  my  uncle.  Because  I  owe  him  a 
little  thought  and  some  remembrance.  He  made  my  old 
life  for  me — would  you  have  me  begin  the  new  one  before 
he  is  in  the  grave?  This  was  his  house — would  you  have 
me  entertain  Lord  Audley  in  it?"  She  stood  up,  slender 
and  straight,  with  the  table  between  them — and  he  did  not 
guess  that  her  knees  were  trembling.  "  Please  to  under- 
stand," she  continued,  "  that  Lord  Audley  and  I  are  en- 
tirely at  one  in  this.  We  have  our  lives  before  us,  and  it 
were  indeed  selfish  of  us,  and  ungrateful  of  me,  if  we 
grudged  a  few  days  to  remembrance.  As  selfish,"  she 
continued  bravely — and  he  did  not  know  that  she  braced 
herself  anew — "  as  if  I  were  ever  to  forget  the  friend  who 
was  his  friend,  whose  kindness  has  never  failed  me,  whose 
loyalty  has  never — "  she  broke  down  there.  She  could  not 
go  on. 

"  Add,  too,"  he  said  gruffly,  "  who  has  robbed  you  of 
the  greater  part  of  your  inheritance!  Don't  forget  that!  " 
He  had  been  explaining  the  effect  of  John  Audley's  will  to 
her.  It  had  been  opened  that  morning. 

His  roughness  helped  her  to  recover  herself.     "  I  do 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  289 

not  know  what  you  mean  by  'inheritance,'"  she  said. 
"  My  uncle  has  left  me  the  portion  his  wife  brought  to 
him.  I  am  more  than  satisfied.  I  am  very  grateful.  My 
only  fear  is  that,  had  he  known  of  my  engagement,  he 
would  not  have  wished  me  to  have  this." 

"  The  will  was  made  before  you  came  to  live  here," 
Basset  said.  "  The  eight  thousand  was  left  to  you  because 
you  were  his  brother's  child.  It  was  the  least  he  could  do 
for  you,  and  had  he  made  a  new  will  he  would  doubtless 
have  increased  it.  But,"  breaking  off,  "  I  must  be  going." 
Yet  he  still  stood,  and  he  still  tapped  the  table  with  the 
end  of  his  riding-crop.  "When  is  Audley  coming?"  he 
asked  suddenly.  "To-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  to-morrow." 

"  Well  he  ought  to,"  he  replied,  without  looking  at  her. 
"  You  should  not  be  here  a  day  longer  by  yourself.  It  is 
not  fitting.  I  shall  see  you  in  the  morning  before  we  start 
for  the  church,  but  the  lawyer  will  be  here  and  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  come  again.  But  I  must  be  sure  that  there  is 
some  one  here."  He  spoke  almost  harshly,  partly  to  im- 
press her,  partly  to  hide  his  own  feelings;  and  he  did  not 
suspect  that  she,  too,  was  fighting  for  calmness;  that  she 
was  praying  that  he  would  go,  before  she  showed  more 
clearly  how  much  the  parting  tried  her — before  every  kind 
word,  every  thoughtful  act,  every  toilsome  journey  taken  on 
her  behalf,  rose  to  her  remembrance  and  swept  away  the 
remnants  of  her  self-control. 

She  had  not  imagined  that  she  would  feel  the  leave- 

o 

taking  as  she  did.  She  could  not  speak,  and  she  was 
thankful  that  it  was  too  dark  for  him  to  see  her  face. 
Would  he  never  go?  And  still  the  slow  tap-tap  of  his  whip 
on  the  table  went  on.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  would 
never  forget  the  sound  !  And  if  he  touched  her 

But  he  had  no  thought  of  touching  her. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  at  last.    He  turned,  moved  away, 


2QO  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

lingered.  At  the  door  he  looked  back.  "  I  am  going  into 
the  library,"  he  said.  "  The  coffin  will  be  closed  in  the 
morning." 

"  Yes,  good-night/'  she  muttered,  thankful  that  the 
thought  of  the  dead  man  steadied  her  and  gave  her  power 
to  speak.  "  I  shall  see  him  in  the  morning." 

He  closed  the  door,  and  she  crept  blindly  to  a  chair,  and 
covered  by  the  darkness  she  gave  way.  She  told  herself 
that  she  was  thinking  of  her  uncle.  But  she  knew  that 
she  deceived  herself.  She  knew  that  her  uncle  had  little 
to  do  with  her  tears,  or  with  the  feeling  of  loneliness  that 
overcame  her.  Once  more  she  had  lost  her  friend — and  a 
friend  so  good,  so  kind.  Only  now  did  she  know  his 
value! 

Five  minutes  later  Basset  crossed  the  court  in  search  of 
his  horse.  Mrs.  Toft's  door  stood  open  and  a  stream  of 
firelight  and  candlelight  poured  from  it  and  cut  the  Jan- 
uary fog.  She  was  hard  at  work,  cooking  funeral  meats 
with  the  help  of  a  couple  of  women;  for  quietly  as  John 
Audley  had  lived,  he  could  not  be  buried  without  some  stir. 
Odd  people  would  come,  drawn  by  the  Audley  name,  squires 
who  boasted  some  distant  connection  with  the  line,  a  few 
who  had  been  intimate  with  him  in  past  days.  And  the 
gentry  far  and  wide  would  send  their  carriages,  and  the 
servants  must  be  fed.  Still  the  preparations  jarred  on 
Basset  as  he  crossed  the  court.  He  felt  the  bustle  an  out- 
rage on  the  mourning  girl  he  had  left,  and  on  his  own 
depression. 

Probably  Mrs.  Toft  had  set  the  door  open  that  she  might 
waylay  him,  for  as  he  went  by  she  came  out  and  stopped 
him.  "  Mr.  Basset,  sir !  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Is 
this  true,  what  Toft  tells  me?  I  declare,  when  I  heard  it, 
you  could  ha'  knocked  me  down  with  a  common  dip  !  "  She 
was  wiping  her  hands  on  her  apron.  "  That  the  young  lady 
is  to  marry  his  lordship?  " 

"  I  believe  it  is  true/'  Basset  said  coldly.    "  But  you  had 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  291 

better  let  her  take  her  own  time  to  make  it  known.  Toft 
should  not  have  told  you." 

"  Never  fear,  sir,  I'll  not  let  on.  But,  Lord's  sakes, 
who'd  ha'  thought  it?  And  she'll  be  my  lady!  Not  that 
she's  not  an  Audley,  and  there's  small  differ,  and  she'll 
make  none,  or  I  don't  know  her!  Well,  indeed,  I  hope 
she's  wise,  but  wedding  cake,  make  it  as  rich  as  you  like, 
it's  soon  stale.  And  for  him,  I  don't  know  what  the  Master 
would  have  said  if  he'd  known  it!  I  thought  things  would 
come  out/'  with  a  quick  look  at  Basset,  "  quite  otherways ! 
And  wished  it,  too !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Toft,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Just  so,  sir,  you'll  excuse  me.  Well,  it's  not  many 
months  since  the  young  lady  came,  and  look  at  the  changes ! 
With  the  old  Master  dead,  and  you  going  in  for  elections 
— drat  'em,  I  say,  plaguy  things  that  set  folks  by  the  ears 
— and  Mr.  Colet  gone  and  'Truria  that  unsettled,  and 
Toft  for  ever  wool-gathering,  I  shall  be  glad  when  to- 
morrow's over  and  I  can  sit  down  and  sort  things  out  a 
bit!" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Toft." 

"  And  speaking  of  elections  reminds  me.  You  know  they 
two  Boshams  of  the  Bridge  End,  sir? " 

"  I  know  them.    Yes." 

Mrs.  Toft  sniffed.  "They're  sort  of  kin  to  me,  and 
middling  honest  as  town  folks  go.  But  two  silly  fellows, 
always  meddling  and  making  and  gandering  with  things 
they'd  ought  to  leave  to  the  gentry !  The  old  lord  was  soft 
with  them,  and  so  they've  a  mind  now  to  see  who  is  the 
stronger,  they  or  his  lordship." 

"  If  you  mean  that  they  have  promised  to  vote  for 
me " 

"That's  it,  sir!  Vote  their  living  away,  they  will,  and 
leave  'em  alone!  Votes  are  for  poor  men  to  make  a  bit 
of  money  by,  odd  times;  but  they  two  Boshams  I've  no 
patience  with.  Sally,  Ben's  wife,  was  with  me  to-day,  and 


292  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  Mr.  Stubbs  has  told  them 
that  if  they  vote  for  you  they'll  go  into  the  street." 

"  It's  a  hard  case,"  Basset  .said.  "  But  what  can  I  do?  " 
"Don't  ha'  their  votes.  What's  two  votes  to  you?  For 
the  matter  of  that,"  Mrs.  Toft  continued,  thoroughly 
wound  up,  "what's  all  the  votes — put  together?  Bassets 
and  Audleys,  Audleys  and  Bassets  were  knights  of  the 
shire,  time  never  was,  as  all  the  country  knows!  But  for 
this  little  borough-place  it's  what  your  great-grandfather 
wouldn't  ha'  touched  with  a  pair  of  gloves !  I'd  leave  it 
to  the  riff-raff  that's  got  money  and  naught  else,  and  builds 
Institutes  and  such  like !  " 

"  But  you'd  like  cheap  bread?  "  Basset  said,  smiling. 
"Bread?  Law,  Mr.  Basset,  what's  elections  to  do  wi' 
bread  ?  It's  not  bread  they're  thinking  of,  cheap  or  dear. 
It's  beer !  Swim  in  it  they  do,  more  shame  to  you  gentry ! 
I'll  be  bound  to  say  there's  three  goes  to  bed  drunk  in  the 
town  these  days  for  two  that  goes  sober!  But  there,  you 
speak  to  they  Boshams,  Mr.  Basset,  sir,  and  put  some 
sense  into  them  !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  promise,"  he  answered.  "  I'll  see !  " 
But  it  was  not  of  the  Boshams  he  thought  as  he  rode 
down  the  hill  with  a  tight  rein — for  between  fog  and  frost 
the  road  was  treacherous.  He  was  thinking  of  the  man  who 
had  been  his  friend  and  of  whose  face,  sphinx-like  in  death, 
he  had  taken  farewell  in  the  library.  And  solemn  thoughts, 
thoughts  such  as  at  times  visit  most  men,  calmed  his  spirit. 
The  fret  of  the  contest,  the  strivings  of  the  platform,  the 
rubs  of  vanity  flitted  to  a  distance,  they  became  small 
things.  Even  passion  lost  its  fever  and  love  its  selfishness; 
and  he  thought  of  Audley  with  patience  and  of  Mary  as  he 
would  think  of  her  in  years  to  come,  when  time  had  en- 
shrined her,  and  she  was  but  a  memory,  one  of  the  things 
that  had  shaped  his  life.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  this  mood 
would  pass ;  that  passion  would  surge  up  again,  that  love 
would  reach  out  to  its  object,  that  memory  would  awake 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  293 

and  wound  him,  that  pain  and  restlessness  would  be  his 
for  many  days.  But  he  knew  also — in  this  hour  of  clear 
views — that  all  these  things  would  have  an  end,  and  only 
the  love, 

That  seeketh  not  itself  to  please 
Nor  of  itself  hath  any  care, 

would  remain  with  him. 

Already  it  had  carried  him  some  way.  In  the  matter  of 
the  election,  indeed,  he  might  be  wrong.  He  might  have 
entered  on  it  too  hastily — often  he  thought  that  he  had — 
he  might  be  of  fibre  too  weak  for  the  task.  It  cost  him 
much  to  speak,  and  the  occasional  failure,  the  mistake,  the 
rebuff,  worried  him  for  hours  and  even  days.  Trifles,  too, 
that  would  not  have  troubled  another,  troubled  his  con- 
science; side-issues  that  were  false,  but  that  he  must  not 
the  less  support,  workers  whom  he  despised  and  must  still 
use,  tools  that  soiled  his  hands  but  were  the  only  tools. 
Then  the  vulgar  greeting,  the  tipsy  grasp,  the  friend  in 
the  market-place : — 

The  man  who  hails  you  Tom  or  Jack 
And  proves  by  thumps  upon  your  back 

How  he  esteems  your  merit ! 
Who's  such  a  friend  that  one  had  need 
Be  very  much  his  friend  indeed 

To  pardon  or  to  bear  it  1 

these  humiliated  him.  But  worse,  far  worse,  than  all  was 
his  unhappy  gift  of  seeing  the  merits  of  the  other  side  and 
of  doubting  the  cause  which  he  had  set  out  to  champion. 
He  had  fits  of  lowness  when  he  was  tempted  to  deny  that 
honesty  existed  anywhere  in  politics;  when  Sir  Robert  Peel 
no  less  than  Lord  George  Bentinck — who  was  coming  to  the 
front  as  the  spokesman  of  the  land — Cobden  the  Radical 
no  less  than  Lord  John  Russell,  seemed  to  be  bent  only  on 


294  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

their  own  advancement,  when  all,  he  vowed,  were  of  the 
School  of  the  Cynics! 

But  were  he  right  or  wrong  in  his  venture — and  right 
or  wrong  he  had  small  hope  of  winning — he  would  not  the 
less  cling  to  the  thing  which  Mary  had  given  him — the  will 
to  make  something  of  his  life,  the  determination  that  he 
would  leave  the  world,  were  it  only  the  few  hundred  acres 
that  he  owned,  or  the  hamlet  in  which  he  lived,  better  than 
he  had  found  them.  The  turmoil  of  the  election  over,  he 
would  devote  himself  to  his  property  at  Blore.  There  John 
Audley's  twenty  thousand  pounds  opened  a  wide  door.  He 
would  build,  drain,  manure,  make  roads,  re-stock.  He 
would  make  all  things  new.  From  him  as  from  a  centre 
comfort  should  flow.  He  saw  himself  growing  old  in  the 
middle  of  his  people,  a  lonely,  but  not  an  unhappy  man. 

As  he  passed  the  bridge  at  Riddsley  he  thought  of  the 
Boshams,  and  weary  as  he  was,  he  drew  rein  at  their  door. 
Ben  Bosham  came  out,  bare-headed;  a  short,  elderly  man 
with  a  bald  forehead  and  a  dirty  complexion,  a  man  who 
looked  like  a  cobbler  rather  than  the  cow-keeper  he  was. 

"  Shut  your  door,  Bosham,"  Basset  said.  "  I  want  a 
word  with  you." 

And  when  the  man  had  done  this,  he  stooped  from  the 
saddle  and  said  a  few  words  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  I'm  dommed ! "  the  other  answered,  peering  up 
through  the  darkness.  "  It  be  you,  Squire,  bain't  it  ?  But 
you're  not  meaning  it?  " 

"  I  am,"  Basset  replied  in  a  low  voice.  "  I'd  not  say, 
vote  for  him,  Bosham.  But  leave  it  alone.  You're  not 
called  upon  to  ruin  yourself." 

"  But  ha'  you  thought,"  the  man  exclaimed,  "  that  our 
two  votes  may  make  the  differ?  That  they  may  make  you 
or  mar  you,  Squire !  " 

"  Well,  I'd  rather  be  marred  than  see  you  put  out  of 
your  place,"  Basset  answered.  "  Think  it  over,  Bosham." 

But  Bosham  repudiated  even  thought  of  it.     This  vote 


A  FRIEND  IN  NEED  295 

and  his  use  of  it,  this  defiance  of  a  lord,  was,  for  the  time, 
his  very  life.  "  I'll  not  do  it,"  he  declared.  "  I  couldn't 
do  it!  Nor  I  won't!"  he  repeated.  "We're  freemen  o' 
Biddsley,  and  almost  the  last  of  the  freemen  that  has  votes 
as  freemen !  And  while  free  we  are,  free  we'll  be,  and  vote 
as  we  choose,  Squire!  Vote  as  we  choose!  I'd  not  show 
my  face  in  the  town  else !  Mr.  Stuhbs  may  talk  as  gallus 
as  he  likes — and  main  ashamed  of  himself  he  looked  yes- 
terday— he  may  talk  as  gallus  as  never  was,  we'll  not  bend 
to  no  landlord,  nor  to  no  golden  image !  " 

"  Then  there's  no  more  to  be  said,"  Basset  answered, 
feeling  that  he  cut  a  poor  figure.  "  I  don't  wish  you  to  do 
anything  against  your  conscience,  Bosham,  and  I'm  obliged 
to  you  and  your  brother  for  your  staunchness.  I  only 
wanted  you  to  know  that  I  should  understand  if  you  stayed 
away." 

"  I'd  chop  my  foot  off  first !  "  cried  the  patriot. 

After  which  Basset  had  no  choice  but  to  leave  him  and 
to  ride  on,  feeling  that  he  was  himself  too  soft  for  the 
business — that  he  was  a  round  man  in  a  square  hole.  He 
wondered  what  his  committee  would  think  of  him  if  they 
knew,  and  what  Bosham  thought  of  him — who  did  know. 
For  Bosham  seemed  to  him  at  this  moment  a  man  of 
principle,  a  patriot,  nay,  a  very  Brutus :  whereas,  Ben  was 
in  truth  no  better  than  a  small  man  of  large  conceit,  whose 
vote  was  his  one  road  to  fame. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

BEN   BOSHAM 

IT  was  Tuesday,  market-day  at  Eiddsley,  and  farmers' 
wives,  cackling  as  loudly  as  the  poultry  they  carried, 
elbowed  one  another  on  the  brick  pavements  or  clustered 
before  the  windows  of  the  low-browed  shops.  Farmers  in 
white  great-coats,  with  huge  handkerchiefs  about  their 
necks,  streamed  from  the  yards  of  the  Packhorse  and  the 
Barley  Mow,  and  meeting  a  friend  planted  themselves  in 
the  roadway  as  firmly  as  if  they  stood  in  their  own  pas- 
tures. Now  and  again  a  young  spark,  fancying  all  eyes 
upon  his  four-year-old,  sidled  through  the  throng  with 
many  a  "  Whoa  1 "  and  "  Where  be'st  going,  lad  ?  "  While 
on  the  steps  of  the  Market-Cross  and  about  the  long  line  of 
carts  that  rested  on  their  shafts  in  the  open  street,  huck- 
sters chaffered  and  house-wives  haggled  over  the  rare  egg 
or  the  keg  of  salted  butter. 

The  quacking  of  ducks,  the  neighing  of  horses,  the  sing- 
song of  rustic  voices  filled  the  streets.  It  was  common  talk 
that  the  place  was  as  full  as  at  the  March  Fair.  The  excite- 
ment of  the  Election  had  gone  abroad,  the  cry  that  the  land 
was  at  stake  had  brought  in  some,  others  had  come  to  see 
what  was  afoot.  Many  a  stout  tenant  was  here  who  at 
other  times  left  the  marketing  to  his  womenfolk;  and 
shrewd  glances  he  cast  at  the  gentry,  as  he  edged  past  the 
justices  who  lounged  before  the  Audley  Arms  and  killed  in 
gossip  the  interval  between  the  Magistrates'  Meeting,  at 
which  they  had  just  assisted,  and  the  Ordinary  at  which 
they  were  to  support  young  Mottisfont. 

The  great  men  talked  loudly  and  eagerly,  were  pas- 

296 


BEN  BOSHAM  297 

Bionate,  were  in  earnest.  Occasionally  one  of  the  younger 
of  them  would  step  aside  to  look  at  a  passing  hackney,  or  an 
older  man  would  speak  to  a  favorite  tenant  whom  he  called 
by  his  first  name.  But,  for  the  most  part,  they  clung  to- 
gether, fine  upstanding  figures,  in  high-collared  riding-coats 
and  top-boots.  They  were  keen  to  a  man ;  the  farmers  keen 
also,  but  not  so  keen.  For  the  argument  that  high  wheat 
meant  high  rents,  and  that  most  of  the  benefits  of  protec- 
tion went  to  the  landlords  had  got  about  even  in  Riddsley. 
The  squires  complained  that  the  farmers  would  only  wake 
up  when  it  was  too  late ! 

Still  in  such  a  place,  and  on  market-day,  four  out  of  five 
were  in  the  landed  interest ;  four-fifths  of  the  squires,  four- 
fifths  of  the  parsons,  almost  four-fifths  of  the  tenants;  for 
the  laborers,  no  one  asked  what  they  thought  of  it — they 
had  ten  shillings  a  week  and  no  votes.  "  Peel — 'od  rot 
him  !  "  cried  the  majority,  "  might  shift  as  often  as  his  own 
spinning-jenny !  But  not  they !  No  Manchester  man,  and 
no  Tamworth  man  either,  should  teach  them  their  business ! 
Who  would  die  if  there  were  no  potatoes?  It  was  a  flam, 
a  bite,  but  it  wouldn't  bamboozle  Stafford  farmers !  " 

Meanwhile  Stubbs,  moving  quietly  through  the  throng, 
spoke  with  one  here  and  there.  He  had  the  same  word  for 
all.  "  Listen  to  me,  John,"  he  would  say,  his  hand  on  the 
yeoman's  shoulder.  "  Peel  says  he's  been  wrong  all  these 
years  and  is  only  right  now.  Then,  if  you  believe  him,  he's 
a  fool ;  and  if  you  don't  believe  him,  he's  a  knave.  Not  a 
very  good  vet.,  John,  eh?  Not  the  vet.  for  the  old  gray 
mare,  eh?  " 

This  had  a  great  effect.  John  went  away  and  repeated 
it  to  himself,  and  presently  grasped  the  dilemma  and 
chuckled  over  it.  Ten  minutes  later  he  imparted  it,  with 
the  air  of  a  Solomon,  to  the  "  Duke,"  who  mouthed  it  and 
liked  it  and  rolled  it  off  to  the  first  he  met.  It  went  the 
round  of  the  inns  and  about  four  o'clock  a  farmer  fresh 
from  the  "  tap  "  put  it  to  Stubbs  and  convinced  him ;  and 


298  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

that  night  men,  travelling  home  market-peart  in  the  charge 
of  their  wives,  bore  it  to  many  a  snug  homestead  set  in 
orchards  of  hard  cider  apples. 

Had  the  issue  of  the  Election  lain  with  the  Market,  in- 
deed, it  had  been  over.  But  of  the  hundred  and  ninety 
voters  no  more  than  fifteen  were  farmers,  and  though  the 
main  trade  of  the  town  sided  with  them,  the  two  factories 
were  in  opposition ;  and  cheap  bread  had  its  charms  for  the 
lesser  fry.  But  the  free  traders  were  too  wise  to  flaunt 
their  views  on  market-day,  and  it  was  left  for  little  Ben 
Bosham,  whose  vote  was  pretty  near  his  all,  to  distinguish 
himself  in  the  matter. 

He,  too,  had  been  at  the  tap,  and  about  noon  his  voice 
was  heard  issuing  from  a  group  who  stood  near  the  Audley 
Arms.  "  Be  I  free,  or  bain't  I  ?  "  he  bawled.  "  Answer 
me  that,  Mr.  Bagenal !  " 

A  knot  of  farmers  had  edged  him  into  a  corner  and 
were  disposed  to  bait  him.  A  stubby  figure  in  a  velveteen 
coat  and  drab  breeches,  his  hand  on  an  ash-plant,  he  held 
his  ground  among  them,  tickled  by  the  attention  he  excited 
and  fired  by  his  own  importance.  "  Be  I  free,  or  bain't 
I  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Free  ?  "  Bagenal  answered  contemptuously.  "  You  be 
free  to  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  Ben !  I'm  thinking  you'd 
ha?  us  all  lay  down  the  ground  to  lazy  pasture  and  live  by 
milk,  as  you  do !  " 

"  Milk  ?  "  ejaculated  a  stout  man  of  many  acres,  whose 
contempt  for  such  traffic  was  above  speech. 

"  You'll  be  free  to  go  out  of  Bridge  End,"  cried  a  third. 
"  That's  what  you'll  be  free  to  do !  And  where'll  your  vote 
be  then,  Ben?" 

But  there  Bosham  was  sure  of  himself.  "  That's  where 
you  be  wrong,  Mr.  Willet,"  he  retorted  with  gusto.  "  My 
vote  dunno  come  o'  my  landlord,  and  in  the  Bridge  End  or 
out  of  the  Bridge  End,  I've  a  vote  while  I've  a  breath ! 
'Tain't  the  landlord's  vote,  and  why'd  I  give  it  to  he?  Free 


BEN  BOSHAM  299 

I  be — not  like  you,  begging  your  pardon!  Freeman,  old 
freeman,  I  be,  of  this  borough!  Freeman  by  mar- 
riage ! " 

"  Then  you  be  a  very  rare  thing ! "  Bagenal  retorted 
slyly.  "  There's  a  many  lose  their  freedom  that  way,  but 
you  be  the  first  I  ever  heard  of  that  got  it! " 

"  And  a  hard  bargain,  too,  as  I  hear,"  said  Willet. 

This  drew  a  roar  of  laughter.  The  crowd  grew  thicker 
and  the  little  man's  temper  grew  short,  for  his  wife  was 
no  beauty.  He  began  to  see  that  they  were  playing  with 
him. 

"  You  leave  me  alone,  Mr.  Willet,"  he  said  angrily,  "  and 
I'll  leave  you  alone !  " 

"  Leave  thee  alone ! "  said  the  farmer  who  had  turned 
up  his  nose  at  milk.  "  So  I  would,  same  as  any  other  lump 
o'  dirt!  But  yo'  don't  let  us.  Yo'  set  up  to  know  more 
than  your  betters!  Pity  the  old  lord  ain't  alive  to  put  his 
stick  about  your  back !  " 

"  Did  it  smart,  Ben  ?  "  cried  a  lad  who  had  poked  iim- 
self  in  between  his  betters. 

"  You  let  me  catch  you,"  Ben  cried,  "  and  I'll  make  you 
smart.  You  be  all  a  set  of  slaves !  You'd  set  your  thatch 
afire  if  squires'd  tell  you !  Set  o'  slaves,  set  o'  slaves  you 
be!" 

"  And  what  be  you,  Bosham  ?  "  said  a  man  who  had  just 
joined  the  group.  "  Head  of  the  men,  hain't  you  ?  Cheap 
bread  and  high  wages,  that's  your  line,  ain't  it !  " 

"That's  his  line,  be  it?"  said  the  old  farmer  slowly. 
" Bit  of  a  rascal  it  seems  yo'  be?  Don't  yo'  let  me  find  you 
in  my  boosey  pasture  talking  to  no  men  o'  mine,  or  I'll 
make  yo'  smart  a  sight  more  than  his  lordship  did ! " 

"  Ay,  that's  Ben's  line,"  said  the  new-comer. 

"  You're  a  liar !  "  Ben  shrieked.  "  A  dommed  liar  you 
be!  I  see  you  not  half  an  hour  agone  coming  out  of 
Stubbs's  office!  I  know  who  told  you  to  say  that,  you 
varmint !  I'll  have  the  law  of  you ! " 


300  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Ben  Bosham,  the  laborers'  friend !  "  the  man  retorted. 

Ben  was  furious,  for  he  was  frightened.  There  was  no 
feud  so  bitter  in  the  'forties  as  the  feud  between  farmer  and 
laborer.  The  laborer  had  no  vote,  he  had  lost  his  common 
rights,  his  wood,  his  cow-feed;  he  was  famished,  he  was 
crushed  by  the  new  Poor  Law,  and  so  he  was  often  in  an 
ugly  mood,  as  singed  barns  and  burning  stacks  went  to 
show.  Bosham  knew  that  he  might  flout  the  squires,  and 
at  worst  be  turned  out  of  his  holding;  but  woe  betide  him 
if  he  got  the  name  of  the  laborers'  friend.  Moreover,  there 
was  just  so  much  truth  in  the  accusation  as  made  it 
dangerous.  Ben  and  his  brother  eked  out  the  profits  of  the 
dairy  by  occasional  labor,  and  Ben  had  sometimes  vapored 
in  tap-rooms  where  he  had  better  have  held  his  tongue.  He 
shrieked  furiously,  therefore,  at  the  false  witness,  and  even 
tried  to  reach  him  with  his  ash-plant.  "  Who  be  you  ?  "  he 
screamed.  "  You  be  a  lawyer's  pup,  you  be !  You'd  ruin 
me,  you  would !  Let  me  get  a  hold  of  you  and  I'll  put  a 
mark  on  you !  You  be  lying !  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that/'  said  the  big  farmer  slowly 
and  weightily.  "  I'm  feared  yo're  a  bit  of  a  rascal,  Ben." 

"  Ay,  and  fine  he'll  look  in  front  of  Stafford  Gaol  some 
morning !  "  said  Willet.  "  At  the  end  of  a  rope." 

On  that  in  a  happy  moment  for  Ben,  while  he  gaped 
for  a  retort  and  found  none,  two  carriers'  vans,  huge 
wooden  vehicles  festooned  with  rabbits  and  market-baskets 
and  drawn  by  three  horses  abreast,  lumbered  through  the 
crowd  and  scattered  it.  In  a  twinkling  Ben  was  left  alone, 
an  angry  man,  aware  that  he  had  cut  but  a  poor  figure ! 

He  had  been  frightened,  too,  and  he  resented  it.  He 
thirsted  for  some  chance  of  setting  himself  right,  of  prov- 
ing to  others  that  he  was  a  freeman  and  not  as  other  men. 
And  in  the  nick  of  time  he  saw  a  chance — if  only  he  had 
the  courage  to  rise  to  it.  He  saw  moving  towards  him 
through  the  press  a  mail-phaeton  and  pair.  On  the  box, 
caped  and  gloved,  the  pink  of  fashion,  sat  no  less  a  person 


BEN  BOSHAM  301 

than  his  lordship  himself.  A  servant  in  the  well-known 
livery,  a  white  coat  with  a  blue  collar,  sat  behind  him. 

The  vans  which  had  freed  Ben  blocked  the  great  man's 
way,  and  he  was  moving  at  a  walk.  All  heads  were  bared 
as  he  passed,  and  he  was  acknowledging  the  courtesy  with 
his  whip  when  Ben  stepped  before  the  horses  and  lifted 
his  hand.  In  an  instant  a  hundred  eyes  were  on  the  man 
and  he  knew  that  he  had  burned  his  boats.  Bravado  was 
now  his  only  chance. 

"  My  lord,"  he  cried,  waving  his  hat  impudently.  "  I 
want  to  know  what  you  be  going  to  do  about  me  ?  " 

My  lord  hardly  caught  his  words  and  did  not  catch  his 
meaning,  but  he  saw  that  the  man  was  almost  under  the 
horses'  feet  and  he  checked  them.  Ben  stood  aside  then 
but,  as  the  carriage  passed  him,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
splashboard  and  walked  beside  it.  He  looked  up  at  the 
great  man  and  in  the  same  impudent  tone,  "  Be  you  agoing 
to  turn  me  out,  my  lord  ?  "  he  cried.  "  That's  what  I  want 
to  know." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  Audley  said  coldly.  He 
guessed  that  the  man  referred  to  the  Election,  and  what 
was  the  use  of  understrappers  like  Stubbs  if  he  was  to  be 
exposed  to  this? 

"I'm  Ben  Bosham  of  the  Bridge  End,  my  lord,  that's 
who  I  be,"  Ben  replied  brazenly.  "  I'm  not  ashamed  of 
my  name.  I  want  to  know  whether  you  be  agoing  to  turn 
me  out,  and  my  wife  and  my  child !  That's  what  I  want 
to " 

Then  a  farmer  seized  him  and  dragged  him  back,  and 
others  laid  hands  on  him,  though  he  still  shouted.  "  Dunno 
be  a  fool !  "  cried  the  farmer,  deeply  shocked.  "  Drive  on, 
drive  on,  my  lord !  Never  heed  him.  He've  had  a  glass 
too  much !  " 

"  Packhorse  beer,  my  lord,"  explained  a  second  in  sten- 
torian tones — though  he  knew  that  Ben  was  fairly  sober. 

"  Ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself !  "  cried  a  third,  and 


302  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

he  shook  the  aggressor.  Ben  was  in  a  minority  of  one,  and 
those  who  held  him  were  inclined  to  be  rough. 

Audley  waved  his  whip  good-humoredly.  "  Take  care 
of  him !  "  he  said.  "  Don't  hurt  him !  "  And  he  drove  on, 
outwardly  unmoved  though  inwardly  fuming.  Still  had  it 
ended  there  little  harm  would  have  been  done.  But  word 
of  the  brawl  outran  the  carriage  and,  as  it  chanced,  reached 
the  door  of  Hatton's  Works  as  the  men  came  out  to  dinner. 
Ben  Bosham  had  spoken  his  mind  to  his  lordship !  His 
lordship  had  driven  over  him !  The  farmers  had  beaten 
him !  The  news  passed  from  one  to  another  like  flame,  and 
the  hands  stood,  some  two  score  of  them,  and  hooted  my 
lord  loudly,  shouting  "  Shame ! "  and  jeering  at  him. 

Now  had  Audley  been  the  candidate  he  would  have 
thought  nothing  of  it.  He  would  have  laughed  in  the 
men's  faces  and  taken  it  as  part  of  the  day's  work;  or 
had  he  been  the  old  lord,  he  would  have  flung  a  curse  at 
the  men  and  cut  at  the  nearest  with  his  whip — and  for- 
gotten it. 

But  he  was  not  the  old  lord,  times  were  changed,  and  the 
thing  angered  him.  It  was  in  an  ill-temper  that  he  drove 
on  along  the  road  that  rose  by  gentle  degrees  to  the  Great 
Chase. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  he  had  been  in  a  black  mood  for 
some  time,  because  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind.  Night 
and  morning  ambition  whispered  to  him  to  put  the  vessel 
about;  to  steer  the  course  which  experience  told  him  that  it 
behooved  a  man  to  steer  who  was  not  steeped  in  romance, 
nor  too  greedy  for  the  moment's  enjoyment;  the  course 
which,  beyond  all  doubt,  he  would  have  steered  were  he 
now  starting! 

But  he  was  not  starting ;  and  when  he  thought  of  shift- 
ing the  helm  he  foresaw  difficulties.  He  did  not  think  that 
he  was  a  soft-hearted  man,  yet  he  feared  that  when  it  came 
to  the  point  he  would  flinch.  Besides,  he  told  himself  that 
he  was  a  man  of  honor ;  and  the  change  was  a  little  at  odds 


MARY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  303 

with  this.  But  there  again,  he  reflected  that  truth  was 
honor  and  in  the  end  would  cause  less  pain. 

Eight  thousand  pounds  was  so  very  small  a  portion! 
And  for  safety,  he  no  longer  needed  to  play  for  it.  John 
Audley  was  dead  and  the  Bible  was  in  his  hands;  his  case 
was  beyond  cavil  or  question,  while  the  political  situation 
was  such  that  he  saw  no  opening,  no  chance  of  enrichment 
in  that  direction.  To  make  Mary,  handsome,  good,  attrac- 
tive as  she  was — to  make  her  the  wife  of  a  poor  peer,  of  a 
discontented,  dissatisfied  man — this,  if  he  could  only  find  it 
in  his  heart  to  tell  her  the  truth,  would  be  a  cruel  kind- 
ness. 

As  he  drove  along  the  road,  angry  with  the  wretched 
Bosham,  angry  with  Stubbs,  angry  with  the  fools  who  had 
hooted  him,  he  was  not  sorry  to  feel  his  ill-temper  increase. 
He  might  not  find  it  so  difficult  to  speak  to  her.  A  little 
effort  and  the  thing  would  be  done.  Eight  thousand 
pounds?  The  interest  would  barely  dress  her.  Whereas, 
if  she  had  played  her  cards  well  and  been  heir  to  her 
uncle's  thirty  thousand — the  case  would  have  been  different. 
After  all,  the  fault  lay  with  her. 

He  roused  the  off-horse  with  a  sharp  cut,  and  a  moment 
later  discerned  at  the  end  of  a  long,  straight  piece  of  road, 
the  moss-clad  steps  of  the  old  Cross  and  standing  beside 
them  a  figure  he  knew. 

He  was  moved,  even  while,  in  his  irritation,  he  was 
annoyed  that  she  had  come  to  meet  him  at  a  place  that 
had  recollections  for  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  doing 
this  she  was  putting  an  undue,  an  unfair  burden  on  him. 

She  waved  her  hand  and  he  raised  his  hat.  The  day  was 
bright  and  cold,  and  the  east  wind  had  whipped  a  fine  color 
into  her  cheeks.  Perhaps  that,  too,  was  unfair.  Perhaps 
that  too  was  putting  an  undue  burden  on  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MAEY   MAKES    A   DISCOVERY 

BUT  his  face  was  not  one  to  betray  his  thoughts,  and  as  he 
drew  up  beside  Mary,  horses  fretting,  polechains  jingling, 
the  silver  of  the  harness  glittering  from  a  score  of  points, 
he  made  a  gallant  show.  The  most  eager  lover,  Apollo  him- 
self in  the  chariot  of  the  sun,  had  scarcely  made  a  better 
approach  to  his  mistress,  had  hardly  carried  it  more  finely 
over  a  mind  open  to  appearances. 

With  a  very  fair  show  of  haste  he  bade  his  man  take 
the  reins,  and  as  the  servant  swung  himself  into  the  front 
seat  the  master  sprang  to  the  ground.  His  hand  met 
Mary's,  his  curly-brimmed  hat  was  doffed,  his  eyes  smiled 
into  hers.  "  Well,  better  late  than  never !  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  But  she  spoke  more  soberly  than 
he  expected  and  her  face  was  grave.  "You  have  been  a 
long  time  away/' 

That  was  their  meeting.  The  servant  was  there;  under 
his  eyes  it  could  not  be  warmer.  Whether  one  or  the 
other  had  foreseen  this  need  not  be  asked. 

He  spoke  to  the  man,  who,  possessed  by  a  natural 
curiosity,  was  all  ears.  "  Keep  them  moving,"  he  said. 
"  Drive  back  a  mile  or  two  and  return."  Then  to  Mary,  his 
hat  still  in  his  hand,  "  A  long  time  away  ?  Longer  than  I 
expected,  and  far  longer  than  I  hoped,  Mary.  Shall  we  go 
up  the  hill  a  little?" 

"  I  thought  you  would  propose  that,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
so  glad  that  it  is  fine." 

The  man  had  turned  the  horses.  Audley  took  her  hand 
again  and  pressed  it,  looking  in  her  face,  telling  himself 

304 


305 

that  she  grew  more  handsome  every  day.  Why  hadn't  she 
thirty  thousand  pounds?  Aloud  he  said,  "  So  am  I,  very 
glad.  Otherwise  you  could  not  have  met  me,  and  I  fancied 
that  you  might  not  wish  me  to  come  to  the  house?  Was 
that  so,  dear?" 

"I  think  it  was/'  she  said.  "  He  has  been  gone  so  very 
short  a  time.  Perhaps  it  was  foolish  of  me." 

"  Not  at  all ! "  he  answered,  admiring  the  purity  of  her 
complexion.  "  It  was  like  you/' 

"  If  we  had  told  him,  it  would  have  been  different/' 

"  On  the  other  hand,"  he  said  deftly,  as  he  drew  her 
hand  through  his  arm,  "it  might  have  troubled  his  last 
days?  And  now,  tell  me  all,  Mary,  from  the  beginning. 
You  have  gone  through  dark  days  and  I  have  not  been — 
I  could  not  be  with  you.  But  I  want  to  share  them." 

She  told  the  story  of  John  Audley's  disappearance,  her 
cheeks  growing  pale  as  she  described  the  alarm,  the  search, 
the  approach  of  night  and  her  anguish  at  the  thought  that 
her  uncle  might  be  lying  in  some  place  which  they  had 
overlooked !  Then  she  told  him  of  Basset's  arrival,  of  the 
discovery,  of  the  manner  in  which  Peter  had  arranged 
everything  and  saved  her  in  every  way.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  to  omit  this,  to  say  nothing  of  him,  would  be  as  unfair 
to  the  one  as  uncandid  to  the  other. 

My  lord's  comment  was  cordial,  yet  it  jarred  on  her. 
"  Well  done !  "  he  said.  "  He  was  made  to  be  of  use,  poor 
chap!  If  it  were  any  one  else  I  should  be  jealous  of 
him !  "  And  he  laughed,  pressing  her  arm  to  his  side. 

She  was  quivering  with  the  memories  which  her  story 
had  called  up,  and  it  was  only  by  an  effort  that  she  checked 
the  impulse  to  withdraw  her  hand.  "Had  you  been 
there " 

"  I  hope  I  should  have  done  as  much,"  he  replied  com- 
placently. "  But  it  was  impossible." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  And  though  she  knew  that  her  tone 
was  cold,  she  could  not  help  it.  For  many,  many  times 


306  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

during  the  last  month  she  had  pondered  over  his  long  ab- 
sence and  the  chill  of  his  letters.  Many  times  she  had  told 
herself  that  he  was  treating  her  with  scant  affection,  scant 
confidence,  almost  with  scant  respect.  But  then  again  she 
had  reflected  that  she  must  be  mistaken,  that  she  brought 
him  nothing  but  herself,  and  that  if  he  did  not  love  her 
he  would  not  have  sought  her.  And  telling  herself  that 
she  expected  too  much  of  love,  too  much  of  her  lover,  she 
had  schooled  herself  to  be  patient,  and  had  resolved  that 
not  a  word  of  complaint  should  pass  her  lips. 

But  to  assume  a  warmth  which  she  did  not  feel  was 
another  matter.  This  was  beyond  her. 

He,  for  his  part,  set  down  her  manner  to  a  natural 
depression.  "  Poor  child !  "  he  said,  "  you  have  had  a  sad 
time.  Well,  we  must  make  up  for  it.  As  soon  as  we  can 
make  arrangements  you  must  leave  that  gloomy  house 
where  everything  reminds  you  of  your  uncle  and — and  we 
must  make  a  fresh  start.  Do  you  know  where  I  am  taking 
you?" 

She  saw  that  they  had  turned  off  the  road  and  were 
following  a  track  that  scrambled  upwards  through  the 
scrub  that  clothed  the  slope  below  the  Gatehouse.  It 
slanted  in  the  direction  of  the  Great  House.  "  Not  to 
Beaudelays  ?  "  she  said.  - 

"Yes — to  Beaudelays.  But  don't  be  afraid.  Not  to 
the  house." 

"  Oh  no  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  don't  think  I  could  bear  to  go 
there  to-day ! " 

"  I  know.  But  I  want  you  to  see  the  gardens.  I  want 
you  to  see  what  might  have  been  ours,  what  we  might  have 
enjoyed  had  fortune  been  more  kind  to  us !  Had  we  been 
rich,  Mary!  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  you  have  never 
seen  even  the  outside  of  the  Great  House." 

"  I  have  never  been  beyond  the  Iron  Gate." 

"  And  all  these  months  within  a  mile !  " 

"  All  these  months  within  a  mile.    But  he  did  not  wish 


MARY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  307 

it.  It  was  one  of  the  first  things  he  made  me  under- 
stand/' 

"  Ah !  Well,  there  is  an  end  of  that !  "  And  again  so 
matter-of-fact  was  his  tone  that  she  had  to  struggle  against 
the  impulse  to  withdraw  her  arm.  "  Now,  if  there  is  any 
one  who  has  a  right  to  be  there,  it  is  you!  And  I  want 
to  be  the  one  to  take  you  there.  I  want  you  to  see  for  your- 
self that  it  is  only  fallen  grandeur  that  you  are  marrying, 
Mary,  the  thing  that  has  been,  not  the  thing  that  is.  By 
G — d !  I  don't  know  that  there  is  a  creature  in  the  world 
— certainly  there  is  none  in  my  world — more  to  be  pitied 
than  a  poor  peer !  " 

"  That's  nothing  to  me/'  she  said.  And,  indeed,  his 
words  had  brought  him  nearer  to  her  than  anything  he  had 
said.  So  that  when,  taking  advantage  of  the  undergrowth 
which  hid  them  from  the  road  below,  he  put  his  arm  about 
her  and  assisted  her  in  her  climb,  she  yielded  readily. 
"  To  think,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have  never  seen  this  place! 
I  wonder  that  after  we  parted  you  did  not  go  the  very  next 
morning  to  visit  it!  " 

"  Perhaps  I  wished  to  be  taken  there  by  you." 

"  By  Jove !  Do  you  know  that  that  is  the  most  lover-like 
thing  you  have  said." 

"  I  may  improve  with  practice,"  she  rejoined.  "  Indeed, 
it  is  possible,"  she  continued  demurely,  "  that  we  both  need 
practice ! " 

She  had  not  a  notion  that  he  was  in  two  minds;  that 
one  half  of  him  was  revelling  in  the  hour,  pleased  with 
possession,  enjoying  her  beauty,  dwelling  on  the  dainty 
curves  of  her  figure,  while  the  other  uncertain,  wavering, 
was  asking  continually,  "Shall  I  or  shall  I  not?"  But 
if  she  did  not  guess  thoughts  to  which  she  had  no  clue  he 
was  sharp  enough  to  understand  hers.  "  Ah !  you  are 
there,  are  you  ?  "  he  said.  "  Wait !  Presently,  when  we  are 
out  of  sight  of  that  cursed  road " 

"I  didn't  find  fault!" 


308  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

On  that  there  was  a  little  banter  between  them,  gallant 
and  smiling  on  his  part,  playful  and  defensive  on  hers, 
which  lasted  until  they  reached  a  door  leading  into  the 
lower  garden.  It  was  a  rusty,  damp-stained  door,  once 
painted  green,  and  masked  by  trees  somewhat  higher  than 
the  underwood  through  which  they  had  climbed.  Ivy  hung 
from  the  wall  above  it,  rank  grass  grew  against  it,  the 
air  about  it  was  dank,  and  in  summer  sent  up  the  smell  of 
wild  leeks.  Once  under-gardeners  had  used  it  to  come  and 
go,  and  many  a  time  on  moonlit  nights  maids  had  stolen 
through  it  to  meet  their  lovers  in  the  coppice  or  on  the 
road. 

Audley  had  brought  the  key  and  he  set  it  in  the  lock 
and  turned  it.  But  he  did  not  open  the  door.  Instead, 
he  turned  to  Mary  with  a  smile.  "  This  is  my  surprise," 
he  said.  "  Shut  your  eyes  and  open  them  when  I  tell  you. 
I  will  guide  you/' 

She  complied  without  suspicion,  and  heard  the  door 
squeak  on  its  rusty  hinges.  Guided  by  his  hand  she  ad- 
vanced three  or  four  paces.  She  heard  the  door  close 
behind  her.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  on. 
"Now?"  she  asked,  "May  I  look?" 

"  Yes,  now !  "  he  answered.  As  he  spoke  he  drew  her  to 
him,  and,  before  she  knew  what  to  expect,  he  had  crushed 
her  to  his  breast  and  was  pressing  kisses  on  her  face  and 
lips. 

She  was  taken  by  surprise  and  so  completely,  that  for  a 
moment  she  was  helpless,  without  defence.  Then  the  in- 
stinctive impulse  to  resist  overcame  her,  and  she  struggled 
fiercely;  and,  presently,  she  released  herself.  "Oh,  you 
shouldn't  have  done  it !  "  she  cried.  "  You  shouldn't  have 
done  it!" 

"  My  darling !  " 

"  You — you  hurt  me !  "  she  panted,  her  breath  coming 
short  and  quick.  She  was  as  red  now  as  she  had  for  a 
moment  been  white.  Her  lips  trembled,  and  there  were 


MARY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  309 

tears  in  her  eyes.  He  thought  that  he  had  been  too  rough 
with  her,  and  though  he  did  not  understand,  he  stayed  his 
impulse  to  seize  her  again.  Instead,  he  stood  looking  down 
at  her,  a  little  put  out. 

She  tried  to  smile,  tried  bravely  to  pass  it  off;  but  she 
was  put  to  it,  he  could  see,  not  to  burst  into  tears.  "  Per- 
haps I  am  foolish,"  she  faltered,  "but  please  don't  do  it 
again." 

"I  can't  promise — for  always,"  he  answered,  smiling. 
But,  none  the  less,  he  was  piqued.  What  a  prude  the  girl 
was!  What  a  Sainte-ni-touche !  To  make  such  a  fuss 
about  a  few  kisses ! 

She  tried  to  take  the  same  tone.  "I  know  I  am  silly," 
she  said,  "  but  you  took  me  by  surprise." 

"  You  were  very  innocent,  then,  my  dear.  Still,  I'll  be 
good,  and  next  time  I  will  give  you  warning.  Now,  don't 
be  afraid,  take  my  arm,  and  let  us " 

"If  I  could  sit  down?"  she  murmured.  Then  he  saw 
that  the  color  had  again  left  her  cheeks. 

There  was  an  old  wheelbarrow  inside  the  door,  half  full 
of  dead  leaves.  He  swept  it  clear,  and  she  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  it.  He  stood  by  her,  puzzled,  and  at  a  loss. 

Certainly  he  had  played  a  trick  on  her,  and  he  had  been 
a  little  rough  because  he  had  felt  her  impulse  to  resist. 
But  she  must  have  known  that  he  would  kiss  her  sooner  or 
later.  And  she  was  no  child.  Her  convent  days  were  not 
of  yesterday.  She  was  a  woman.  He  did  not  under- 
stand it. 

Alas,  she  did  understand  it.  It  was  not  her  lover's 
kisses,  it  was  not  his  passion  or  his  roughness  that  had 
shaken  Mary.  She  was  not  a  prude  and  she  was  a  woman. 
That  which  had  overwhelmed  her  was  the  knowledge,  the 
certainty  forced  on  her  by  his  embrace,  that  she  did  not 
love  him !  That,  however  much  she  might  have  deluded 
herself  a  few  weeks  earlier,  however  far  she  might  have  let 
the  lure  of  love  mislead  her,  she  did  not  love  this  manl 


310  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

And  she  was  betrothed  to  him,  she  was  promised  to  him,  she 
was  his!  On  her  engagement  to  him,  on  her  future  with 
him  had  been  based — a  moment  before — all  her  plans  and 
all  her  hopes  for  the  future. 

No  wonder  that  the  color  was  struck  from  her  face,  that 
she  was  shaken  to  the  depths  of  her  being.  For,  indeed, 
she  knew  something  more — that  she  had  had  her  warning 
and  had  closed  her  eyes  to  it.  That  evening,  when  she  had 
heard  Basset's  step  come  through  the  hall,  that  moment 
when  his  presence  had  lifted  the  burden  of  suspense  from 
her,  should  have  made  her  wise.  And  for  an  instant  the 
veil  had  been  lifted,  and  she  had  been  alarmed.  But  she 
reflected  that  the  passing  doubt  was  due  to  her  lover's 
absence  and  his  coldness;  and  she  had  put  the  doubt  from 
her.  When  Audley  returned  all  would  be  well,  she  would 
feel  as  before.  She  was  hipped  and  lonely  and  the  other 
was  kind  to  her — that  was  all ! 

Now  she  knew  that  that  was  not  all.  She  did  not  love 
Audley  and  she  did  love  some  one  else.  And  it  was  too 
late.  She  had  misled  herself,  she  had  misled  the  man  who 
loved  her,  she  had  misled  that  other  whom  she  loved. 
And  it  was  too  late ! 

For  a  time  that  was  short,  yet  seemed  long  to  her  com- 
panion, who  stood  watching  her,  she  sat  lost  in  thought 
and  unconscious  of  his  presence.  At  length  he  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  Pale  cheeks  and  dull  eyes  had  no  charm  for 
him !  He  had  not  come,  he  had  not  met  her,  for  this. 

"  Come ! "  he  said,  "  come,  Mary,  you  will  catch  cold 
sitting  there !  One  might  suppose  I  was  an  ogre !  " 

She  smiled  wanly.  "  Oh  no !  "  she  said,  "  It  is  I — who 
am  foolish.  Please  forgive  me." 

"  If  you  would  like  to  go  back?  " 

But  her  ear  detected  temper  in  his  tone,  and  with  a  new- 
born fear  of  him  she  hastened  to  appease  him.  "  Oh  no!  " 
she  said.  "  You  were  going  to  show  me  the  gardens !  " 

"  Such  as  they  are.    Well,  so  you  will  see  what  there  is  to 


MARY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  311 

be  seen.  It  is  a  sorry  sight,  I  can  tell  you."  She  rose  and, 
taking  her  arm,  he  led  her  some  fifty  yards  along  the  alley 
in  which  they  were,  then,  turning  to  the  right,  he  stopped. 
"  There,"  he  said.  "  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

They  had  before  them  the  long,  dank,  weed-grown  walk, 
broken  midway  by  the  cracked  fountain  and  closed  at  the 
far  end  by  the  broad  flight  of  broken  steps  that  led  up- 
ward to  the  terrace  and  so  to  the  great  lawn.  When 
Audley  had  last  stood  on  this  spot  the  luxuriance  of  autumn 
had  clothed  the  neglected  beds.  A  tangle  of  vegetation, 
covering  every  foot  of  soil  with  leaf  and  bloom,  had  veiled 
the  progress  of  neglect.  Now,  as  by  magic,  all  was 
changed.  The  sun  still  shone,  but  coldly  and  on  a  bald 
scene.  The  roses  that  had  run  riot,  the.  spires  of  holly- 
hocks that  had  risen  above  them,  the  sunflowers  that  had 
struggled  with  the  encroaching  elder,  nay,  the  very  bind- 
weed that  had  strangled  all  alike  in  its  green  embrace, 
were  gone,  or  only  reared  naked  stems  to  the  cold  sky. 
Gone,  too,  were  the  Old  Man,  the  Sweet  William,  the  St. 
John's  Wort,  the  wilderness  of  humbler  growths  that  had 
pressed  about  their  feet ;  and  from  the  bare  earth  and  leaf- 
less branches,  the  fountain  and  the  sundial  alone,  like 
mourners  over  fallen  grandeur,  lifted  gray  heads. 

There  is  no  garden  that  has  not  its  sad  season,  its  days 
of  stillness  and  mourning,  but  this  garden  was  sordid  as 
well  as  sad.  Its  dead  lay  unburied. 

Involuntarily  Mary  spoke.  "  Oh,  it  is  terrible !  "  she 
cried. 

"  It  is  terrible/'  he  answered  gloomily. 

Then  she  feared  that,  preoccupied  as  she  was  with  other 
thoughts,  she  had  hurt  him.  She  was  trying  to  think  of 
something  to  comfort  him,  when  he  repeated,  "  It  is 
terrible!  But,  d — n  it,  let  us  see  the  rest  of  it!  We've 
come  here  for  that !  Let  us  see  it !  " 

Together  they  went  slowly  along  the  walk.  They  came 
by  and  by  to  the  sundial.  She  hung  a  moment,  wishing 


3i2  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

to  read  the  inscription,  but  he  would  not  stay.  "  It's  the 
old  story,"  he  said.  "  We  are  gay  fellows  in  the  sunshine, 
but  in  the  shadow — we  are  moths." 

He  did  not  explain  his  meaning.  He  drew  her  on. 
They  mounted  the  wide  flight  which  had  once,  flanked  by 
urns  and  nymphs  and  hot  with  summer  sunshine,  echoed 
the  tread  of  red-heeled  shoes  and  the  ring  of  spurs.  Now, 
elder  grew  between  the  shattered  steps,  weeds  clothed 
them,  the  nymphs  mouldered,  lacking  arms  and  heads,  the 
urns  gaped. 

Mary  felt  his  depression  and  would  have  comforted  him, 
but  her  brain  was  numbed  by  the  discovery  which  she  had 
made;  she  was  unable  to  think,  without  power  to  help. 
She  shared,  she  more  than  shared,  his  depression.  And  it 
was  not  until  they  had  surmounted  the  last  flight  and  stood 
gazing  on  the  Great  House  that  she  found  her  voice. 
Then,  as  the  length  and  vastness  of  the  pile  broke  upon  her, 
she  caught  her  breath.  "  Oh,"  she  cried.  "  It  is  im- 
mense ! " 

"  It's  a  nightmare,"  he  replied.  "  That  is  Beaudelays ! 
That  is,"  with  bitterness,  "  the  splendid  seat  of  Philip, 
fourteenth  Lord  Audley — and  a  millstone  about  his  neck! 
It  is  well,  my  dear,  that  you  should  see  it!  It  is  well  that 
you  should  know  what  is  before  you !  You  see  your  home ! 
And  what  you  are  marrying — if  you  think  it  worth 
while !  " 

If  she  had  loved  him  she  would  have  been  strong  to 
comfort  him.  If  she  had  even  fancied  that  she  loved  him, 
she  would  have  known  what  to  answer.  As  it  was,  she 
was  dumb;  she  scarcely  took  in  the  significance  of  his 
words.  Her  mind — so  much  of  it  as  she  could  divert  from 
herself — was  engaged  with  the  sight  before  her,  with  the 
long  rows  of  blank  and  boarded  window?,  the  smokeless 
chimneys,  the  raw,  unfinished  air  that,  after  eighty  years, 
betrayed  that  this  had  never  been  a  home,  had  never  opened 
its  doors  to  happy  brides,  nor  heard  the  voices  of  children. 


MARY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  313 

At  last  she  spoke.  "And  this  is  Beaudelays ? "  she 
said. 

"  This  is  my  home,"  he  replied.  "  That's  the  place-  I've 
come  to  own!  It's  a  pleasant  possession!  It  promises  a 
cheerful  homecoming,  doesn't  it?" 

"  Have  you  never  thought  of — of  doing  anything  to  it  ?  " 
she  asked  timidly. 

"  Do  you  mean — have  I  thought  of  completing  it?  Of 
repairing  it?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  meant  that,"  she  replied. 

"  I  might  as  well  think,"  he  retorted,  "  of  repairing  the 
Tower  of  London!  All  I  have  in  the  world  wouldn't  do 
it !  And  I  cannot  pull  it  down.  If  I  did,  the  lawyers  first 
and  the  housebreakers  afterwards,  would  pull  down  all  I 
have  with  it !  There  is  no  escape,  my  dear,"  he  continued 
slowly.  "  Once  I  thought  there  was.  I  had  my  dream. 
I've  stood  on  this  lawn  on  summer  days  and  I've  told 
myself  that  I  would  build  it  up  again,  and  that  the  name 
of  Audley  should  not  be  lost.  But  I  am  a  peer,  what  can 
I  do?  I  cannot  trade,  I  cannot  plead.  For  a  peer  there  is 
but  one  way — marriage.  And  there  were  times  when  I  had 
visions  of  repairing  the  breach — in  that  way;  when  I 
thought  that  I  could  set  the  old  name  first  and  my  pleasure 
second;  when  I  dreamed  of  marrying  a  great  dowry  that 
should  restore  us  to  the  place  we  once  enjoyed.  But — that 
is  over !  That  is  over,"  he  repeated  in  a  sinking  voice.  "  I 
had  to  choose  between  prosperity  and  happiness;  I  made 
my  choice.  God  grant  that  we  may  never  repent  it !  " 

He  sank  into  silence,  waiting  for  her  to  speak;  he  waited 
with  exasperation.  She  did  not,  and  he  looked  down  at  her. 
Then,  "  I  believe,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have  not  heard  a 
word  I  have  said !  " 

She  glanced  up,  startled.  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  not,"  she 
answered  meekly.  "  Please  forgive  me.  I  was  thinking 
of  my  uncle,  and  wondering  where  he  died." 

It  was  all  that  Audley  could  do  to  check  the  oath  that 


314  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

rose  to  his  lips.  For  he  had  spoken  with  intention ;  he  had 
given  her,  as  he  thought,  a  lead,  an  opening;  and  he  had 
wasted  his  pains.  He  could  hardly  believe  that  she  had  not 
heard.  He  could  almost  believe  that  she  was  playing  with 
him.  But  in  truth  she  had  barely  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  her  discovery,  and  the  thing  before  her  eyes — the  house 
— held  her  attention. 

"I  believe  that  you  think  more  of  your  uncle  than  of 
me !  "  he  cried. 

"  No/'  she  replied,  "  but  he  is  gone  and  I  have  you." 
She  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  of  him;  afraid  of  him,  be- 
cause she  felt  that  she  was  in  fault. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  But  you  must  be  more  kind  to  me 
— or  I  don't  know  that  you  will  keep  me." 

She  thought  that  he  spoke  in  jest,  and  she  pressed  his  arm. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  into  the  house  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !    I  could  not  bear  it  to-day." 

"  Then  you  must  not  mind  if  I  leave  you  for  a  moment. 
I  have  to  look  to  something  inside.  I  shall  not  be  more 
than  five  minutes.  Will  you  walk  up  and  down?  " 

She  assented,  thankful  to  be  alone  with  her  thoughts; 
and  he  left  her.  A  burly,  stately  figure,  he  passed  across 
the  lawn  and  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  old  wing 
where  the  yew  trees  grew  close  to  the  walls.  He  let  him- 
self into  the  house.  He  wished  to  examine  the  strong-room 
for  himself  and  to  see  what  traces  were  left  of  the  tragedy 
which  had  taken  place  there. 

But  when  he  stood  inside  and  felt  the  icy  chill  of  the 
house,  where  each  footstep  awoke  echoes,  and  a  ghostly 
tread  seemed  to  follow  him,  he  went  no  farther  than  the 
shadowy  drawing-room  with  its  mouldering  furniture  and 
fallen  screen.  There,  placing  himself  before  an  unshut- 
tered pane,  he  stood  some  minutes  without  moving,  his 
hands  resting  on  the  head  of  his  cane,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
Mary.  The  girl  was  slowly  pacing  the  length  of  the  ter- 
race, her  head  bent. 


MARY  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY  315 

Whether  the  lonely  figure,  with  its  suggestion  of  sadness, 
made  its  appeal,  or  the  attraction  of  a  grace  that  no  de- 
pression could  mar,  overcame  the  dictates  of  prudence,  he 
hesitated.  At  last,  "  I  can't  do  it !  "  he  muttered,  "  hanged 
if  I  can!  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  have  kissed  her  if  I 
meant  to  do  it  to-day.  No,  I  can't  do  it." 

And  when,  half  an  hour  later,  he  parted  from  her  at  th§ 
old  Cross  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  he  had  not  done  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  MEETING   AT   THE  MAYPOLE 

WITHIN  twenty-four  hours  there  were  signs  that  Bosham's 
brush  with  his  lordship  and  the  show  of  feeling  outside 
Hatton's  Works  had  set  a  sharper  edge  on  the  fight.  Trifles 
as  these  were,  the  farmers  about  Riddsley  took  them  up 
and  resented  them.  The  feudal  feeling  was  not  quite  ex- 
tinct. Their  landlord  was  still  a  great  man  to  them,  and 
even  those  who  did  not  love  him  believed  that  he  was  fight- 
ing their  battle.  An  insult  to  him  seemed,  in  any  case,  a 
portent,  but  that  such  a  poor  creature  as  Bosham — Ben 
Bosham  of  the  Bridge  End — should  insult  him,  went  be- 
yond bearing. 

Moreover,  it  was  beginning  to  be  whispered  that  Ben 
was  tampering  with  the  laborers.  One  heard  that  he  was 
preaching  higher  wages  in  the  public  houses,  another  that 
he  was  asking  Hodge  what  he  got  out  of  dear  bread,  a 
third  that  he  was  vaporing  about  commons  and  enclosures. 
The  farmers  growled.  The  farmers'  sons  began  to  talk  to- 
gether outside  the  village  inn.  The  farmers'  wives  fore- 
saw rick-burning,  maimed  cattle,  and  empty  hen  coops,  and 
said  that  they  could  not  sleep  in  their  beds  for  Ben. 

Meanwhile  those  who,  perhaps,  knew  something  of  the 
origin  of  these  rumors,  and  could  size  up  the  Boshams  to 
a  pound,  were  not  unwilling  to  push  the  matter  farther. 
Men  who  fancied  with  Stubbs  that  repeal  of  the  corn-taxes 
meant  the  ruin  of  the  country-side,  were  too  much  in 
earnest  to  pick  and  choose.  They  believed  that  this  was  a 
fight  between  the  wholesome  country  and  the  black,  sweat- 
ing town,  between  the  open  life  of  the  fields  and  the 

316 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  317 

tyranny  of  mill  and  pit;  and  that  the  only  aim  of  the 
repealer  was  to  lower  wages,  and  so  to  swell  the  profits 
that  already  enabled  him  to  outshine  the  lords  of  the  soil. 
They  were  prone,  therefore,  to  think  that  any  stick  was 
good  enough  to  beat  so  bad  a  dog,  and  if  the  stout  arms 
of  the  farmers  could  redress  the  balance,  they  were  in  no 
mood  to  refuse  their  help. 

Nor  were  sharpeners  wanting  on  the  other  side.  The 
methods  of  the  League  were  brought  into  play.  Women 
were  sent  out  to  sing  through  the  streets  of  an  evening, 
and  the  townsfolk  ate  their  muffins  to  the  doleful  strains 
of: 

Child,  is  thy  father  dead? 

Father  is  gone. 
Why  did  they  tax  his  bread? 

God's  will  be  done! 

And  as  there  were  enthusiasts  on  this  side,  too,  who  saw 
the  work  of  the  Corn  Laws  in  the  thin  cheeks  of  children 
and  the  coffins  of  babes,  the  claims  of  John  Barley-corn, 
roared  from  the  windows  of  the  Portcullis  and  the  Pack- 
horse,  did  not  seem  a  convincing  answer.  A  big  loaf  and 
a  little  loaf,  carried  high  through  the  streets,  made  a  wide 
appeal  to  non-voters;  and  a  banner  with,  "  You  be  taxing, 
we  be  starving !  "  had  its  success.  Then,  on  the  evening  of 
the  market-day,  a  band  of  Hatton's  men,  fresh  from  the 
Three  Tailors,  came  to  blows  with  a  market-peart  farmer, 
and  a  "  hand  "  was  not  only  knocked  down,  but  locked  up. 
Hatton's  and  Banfield's  men  were  fired  with  indignation  at 
this  injustice,  and  Hatton  himself  said  a  little  more  at  the 
Institute  than  Basset  thought  prudent. 

These  things  had  their  effect,  and  more,  perhaps,  than 
was  expected.  For  Stubbs,  going  back  to  his  office  one  after- 
noon, suffered  an  unpleasant  shock.  Bosham's  impudence 
had  not  moved  him,  nor  the  jeers  of  Hatton's  men.  But 
this  turned  out  to  be  another  matter.  Farthingale,  the 


3i8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

shabby  clerk  with  the  high-bred  nose,  had  news  for  him 
which  he  kept  until  the  office  door  was  locked.  And  the 
news  was  so  bad  that  Stubbs  stood  aghast. 

"What?  All  nine?"  he  cried.  "Impossible,  man! 
The  woman's  made  a  fool  of  you !  " 

But  Farthingale  merely  looked  at  him  over  his  steel- 
rimmed  spectacles.  "  It's  true,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  never  believe  it !  "  cried  the  lawyer. 

Farthingale  shook  his  head.  "  That  won't  alter  it/'  he 
said  patiently.  "  It's  true." 

"  Dyas  the  butcher !  Why,  he  served  me  for  years !  For 
years !  I  go  to  him  at  times  now." 

"  Only  for  veal,"  replied  the  clerk,  who  knew  everything 
"  Pitt,  of  the  sausage  shop,  and  Badger,  the  tripeman,  are 
in  his  pocket — buy  his  offal.  With  the  other  six,  it's 
mainly  the  big  loaf — Lake  has  a  sister  with  seven  children, 
and  Thomas  a  father  in  the  almshouse.  Two  more  have 
big  families,  and  the  women  have  got  hold  of  them ! " 

"  But  they've  always  voted  right !  "  Stubbs  urged,  with  a 
sinking  heart.  "  What's  taken  them?  " 

"  If  you  ask  me,"  the  clerk  answered,  "  I  should  say  it 
was  partly  Squire  Basset — he  talks  straight  and  it  takes. 
And  partly  the  split.  When  a  party  splits  you  can't  expect 
to  keep  all.  I  doubted  Dyas  from  the  first.  He's  the  head. 
They  were  all  at  his  house  last  night  and  a  prime  supper 
he  gave  them." 

Stubbs  groaned.    At  last,  "  How  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

Farthingale  shook  his  head.  "  Nix,"  he  said.  "  You 
may  be  shaking  Dyas's  hand  and  find  it's  Hatton's.  If 
you  take  my  advice,  you'll  leave  it  alone." 

"  Well,"  the  lawyer  cried,  "  of  all  the  d — d  ingratitude  I 
ever  heard  of !  The  money  Dyas  has  had  from  me !  " 

Farthingale's  lips  framed  the  words  "  only  veal,"  but  no 
sound  came.  Devoted  as  he  was  to  his  employer,  he  was 
enjoying  himself.  Election  times  were  meat  and  drink — 
especially  drink — to  him.  At  such  times  his  normal  wage 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  319 

was  royally  swollen  by  Election  extras,  such  as :  "  To  ad- 
dressing one  hundred  circulars,  one  guinea.  To  folding 
and  closing  the  same,  half  a  guinea.  To  wafering  the  same, 
half  a  guinea.  To  posting  the  same,  half  a  guinea."  A 
whole  year's  score,  chalked  up  behind  the  door  at  the  Port- 
cullis, vanished  as  by  magic  at  this  season. 

And  then  he  loved  the  importance  of  it,  and  the  secrecy, 
and  the  confidence  that  vas  placed  in  him  and  might  safely 
be  placed.  The  shabby  clerk  who  had  greased  many  a  palm 
was  himself  above  bribes. 

But  Stubbs  was  aghast.  Scarcely  could  he  keep  panic  at 
bay.  He  had  staked  his  reputation  for  sagacity  on  the 
result.  He  had  made  himself  answerable  for  success,  to 
his  lordship,  to  the  candidate,  to  the  party.  Not  once,  but 
twice,  he  had  declared  in  secret  council  that  defeat  was 
impossible — impossible !  Had  he  not  done  so,  the  contest, 
which  his  own  side  had  invited,  might  have  been  avoided. 

And  then,  too,  his  heart  was  in  the  matter.  He  hon- 
estly believed  that  these  poor  creatures,  these  weaklings 
whose  defection  might  cost  so  much,  were  voting  for  the 
ruin  of  their  children,  for  the  impoverishment  of  the  town. 
They  would  live  to  see  the  land  pass  into  the  hands  of  men 
who  would  live  on  it,  not  by  it.  They  would  live  to  see 
the  farmers  bankrupt,  the  country  undersold,  the  town  a 
desert ! 

The  lawyer  had  counted  on  a  safe  majority  of  twenty- 
two  on  a  register  of  a  hundred  and  ninety  voters.  And 
twenty-two  had  seemed  a  buckler,  sufficient  against  all  the 
shafts  and  all  the  spite  of  fortune.  But  a  majority  of  four 
— for  that  was  all  that  remained  if  these  nine  went  over 
— a  majority  of  four  was  a  thing  to  pale  the  cheek.  Per- 
spiration stood  on  his  brow  as  he  thought  of  it.  His  hand 
shook  as  he  shuffled  the  papers  on  his  desk,  looking  for  he 
knew  not  what.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  face  even 
Farthingale,  he  could  not  command  his  eye  or  his  voice. 

At  last,  "  Who  could  get  at  Dyas  ?  "  he  muttered. 


320  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Farthingale  pondered  for  a  time,  but  shook  his  head. 
"  No  one,"  he  said.  "  You  might  try  Hayward  if  you  like. 
They  deal." 

"What's  to  be  done,  then?" 

"  There's  only  one  way  that  I  can  think  of,"  the  clerk 
replied,  his  eyes  on  his  master's  face.  "  Eattle  them  !  Set 
the  farmers  on  them !  Show  them  that  what  they're  doing 
will  be  taken  ill.  Show  'em  we're  in  earnest.  Badger's  a 
poor  creature  and  Thomas's  wife's  never  off  the  twitter. 
I'd  try  it,  if  I  were  you.  You'd  pull  some  back." 

They  talked  for  a  time  in  low  voices  and  before  he  went 
into  the  Portcullis  that  night  Farthingale  ordered  a  gig 
to  be  ready  at  daylight. 

It  might  have  been  thought  that  with  this  unexpected 
gain,  Basset  would  be  in  clover.  But  he,  too,  had  his 
troubles  and  vexations.  John  Audley's  death  and  Mary's 
loneliness  had  made  drafts  on  his  time  as  well  as  on  his 
heart.  For  a  week  he  had  almost  withdrawn  from  the 
contest,  and  when  he  returned  to  it  it  was  to  find  that  the 
extreme  men — as  is  the  way  of  extreme  men — had  been 
active.  In  his  address  and  in  his  speeches  he  had  declared 
himself  a  follower  of  Peel.  He  had  posed  as  ready  to 
take  off  the  corn-tax  to  meet  an  emergency,  but  not  as  con- 
vinced that  free  trade  was  always  and  everywhere  right. 
He  had  striven  to  keep  the  question  of  Irish  famine  to  the 
front,  and  had  constantly  stated  that  that  which  moved  his 
mind  was  the  impossibility  of  taxing  food  in  one  part  of 
the  country  while  starvation  reigned  in  another.  Above 
all,  he  had  tried  to  convey  to  his  hearers  his  notion  of  Peel. 
He  had  pictured  the  statesman's  dilemma  as  facts  began 
to  coerce  him.  He  had  showed  that  in  the  same  position 
many  would  have  preferred  party  to  country  and  con- 
sistency to  patriotism.  He  had  painted  the  struggle  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  proud  man's  mind.  He  had  praised 
the  decision  to  which  Peel  had  come,  to  sacrifice  his  name, 
his  credit,  and  his  popularity  to  his  country's  good. 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  321 

But  when  Basset  returned  to  his  Committee  Room,  he 
found  that  the  men  to  whom  Free  Trade  was  the  whole 
truth,  and  to  whom  nothing  else  was  the  truth,  had  stolen 
a  march  on  him.  They  had  said  much  which  he  would  not 
have  said.  They  had  set  up  Cobden  where  he  had  set  up 
Peel.  To  crown  all,  they  had  arranged  an  open-air  meet- 
ing, and  invited  a  man  from  Lancashire — whose  name  was 
a  red  rag  to  the  Tories — to  speak  at  it. 

Basset  was  angry,  but  he  could  do  nothing.  He  had  an 
equal  distaste  for  the  man  and  the  meeting,  but  his  sup- 
porters, elated  by  their  prospects,  were  neither  to  coax  nor 
hold.  For  a  few  hours  he  thought  of  retiring.  But  to  do 
BO  at  the  eleventh  hour  would  not  only  expose  him  to 
obloquy  and  injure  the  cause,  but  it  would  condemn  him 
to  an  inaction  from  which  he  shrank. 

For  all  that  he  had  seen  of  Mary,  and  all  that  he  had 
done  for  her,  had  left  him  only  the  more  restless  and  more 
unhappy.  To  one  in  such  a  mood  success,  which  began  to 
seem  possible,  promised  something — a  new  sphere,  new 
interests,  new  friends.  In  the  hurly-burly  of  the  House 
and  amid  the  press  of  business,  the  wound  that  pained  him 
would  heal  more  quickly  than  in  the  retirement  of  Blore; 
where  the  evenings  would  be  long  and  lonely,  and  many  a 
time  Mary's  image  would  sit  beside  his  fire  and  regret 
would  gnaw  at  his  heart. 

The  open-air  meeting  was  to  be  held  at  the  Maypole,  in 
the  wide  street  bordered  by  quaint  cottages,  that  served  the 
town  for  a  cattle-market.  The  day  turned  out  to  be  mild 
for  the  season,  the  meeting  was  a  novelty,  and  a  few 
minutes  before  three  the  Committee  began  to  assemble  in 
strength  at  the  Institute,  which  stood  no  more  than  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  Maypole,  but  in  another  street. 
Hatton  was  entertaining  Brierly,  the  speaker  from  Lanca- 
shire, and  in  making  him  known  to  the  candidate,  be- 
trayed a  little  too  plainly  that  he  thought  that  he  had 
scored  a  point. 


322  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  You'll  see  something  new  now,  sir,"  he  said,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "  What's  wanting,  he'll  win !  He's  addressed 
as  many  as  four  thousand  persons  at  one  time,  Mr.  Brierly 
has!" 

"Ay,  and  not  such  as  are  here,  Squire,"  Brierly  boomed. 
He  was  a  tall,  bulky  man  with  an  immense  chin,  who 
moved  his  whole  body  when  he  turned  his  head.  "  Not 
country  clods,  but  Lancashire  men!  Xo  throwing  dust 
i'  their  eyes !  " 

"  Still,  I  hope  you'll  deal  with  us  gently,"  Basset  said. 
"Strong  meat,  Mr.  Brierly,  is  not  for  babes.  We  must 
walk  before  we  can  run." 

"  Xay,  but  the  emptier  the  stomach,  the  more  need  o* 
meat !  "  Brierly  replied,  and  he  rumbled  with  laughter. 
"An'  a  bellyful  I'll  give  them!  Truth's  truth  and  I'm 
no  liar ! " 

"  But  to  different  minds  the  same  words  do  not  convey 
the  same  thing,"  Basset  urged. 

The  man  stared  over  his  stiff  neck-cloth.  "  Thaf  ud  not 
go  down  i'  Todmorden,"  he  said.  "  Xor  i'  Burnley  nor  i' 
Bolton !  We're  down-right  chaps  up  Xorth,  and  none  for 
chopping  words.  Hands  off  the  hands'  loaf,  is  Lancashire 
gospel,  and  we're  out  to  preach  it !  We're  out  to  preach  it, 
and  them  that  clems  folk  and  fats  pheasants  may  make 
what  mouth  o'er  it  they  like !  " 

Fortunately  the  order  to  start  came  at  this  moment,  and 
Basset  had  to  fall  in  and  move  forward  with  Hatton,  the 
chairman  of  the  day.  Banfield  followed  with  the  stranger, 
and  the  rest  of  the  Committee  came  on  two  by  two,  the 
smaller  men  enjoying  the  company  in  which  they  found 
themselves.  So  they  marched  solemnly  into  the  street,  a 
score  of  Hatton's  men  forming  a  guard  of  honor,  and  a 
long  tail  of  the  riff-raff  of  the  town  falling  in  behind  with 
orange  flags  and  favors.  These  at  a  certain  signal  set  up  a 
shrill  cheer,  a  band  struck  up  "  See,  the  Conquering  Hero 
Comes !  "  and  the  sixteen  gentlemen  marched,  some  proudly 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  323 

and  some  shamefacedly,  into  the  wider  street,  wherein  a 
cart  drawn  up  at  the  foot  of  the  Maypole  awaited  them. 

On  such  occasions  Englishmen  out  of  uniform  do  not 
show  well.  The  daylight  streamed  without  pity  on  the 
Committee  as  they  stalked  or  shambled  along  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  and  Basset  at  least  felt  the  absurdity  of 
the  position.  With  the  tail  of  his  eye  he  discerned  that 
the  stranger  was  taking  off  a  large  white  hat,  alternately 
to  the  right  and  left,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  cheers  of 
the  crowd,  while  ominous  sniggers  of  laughter  mingled 
here  and  there  with  the  applause.  Banfield's  men,  with 
another  hundred  or  so  of  the  town  idlers,  were  gathered 
about  the  cart,  but  of  the  honest  and  intelligent  voters 
there  were  scanty  signs. 

The  crowd  greeted  the  appearance  of  each  of  the 
principals  with  cheers  and  a  shaft  or  two  of  Stafford 
wit. 

"  Hooray !  Hooray ! "  shouted  Hatton's  men  as  he 
climbed  into  the  cart. 

"  Hatton's  a  great  man  now ! "  a  bass  voice  threw  in. 

"  But  he's  never  lost  his  taste  for  tripe !  "  squeaked  a 
shrill  treble.  The  gibe  won  roars  of  laughter,  and  the  back 
of  the  chairman's  neck  grew  crimson. 

"  Hurrah  for  Banfield  and  the  poor  man's  loaf ! " 
shouted  his  supporters,  as  he  mounted  in  his  turn. 

"It's  little  of  the  crumb  he'll  leave  the  poor  man!" 
squeaked  the  treble. 

It  was  the  candidate's  turn  to  mount  next.  "Hooray! 
Hooray ! "  shouted  the  crowd  with  special  fervor.  Hand- 
kerchiefs were  waved  from  windows,  the  band  played  a 
little  more  of  the  Conquering  Hero. 

As  the  music  ceased,  "What's  he  doing,  Tommy,  along 
o'  these  chaps?  "  asked  the  treble  voice. 

"He's  waiting  for  that  there  Samaritan,  Sammy ?" 
answered  the  bass. 

"  Ay,  ay  ?    And  the  wine  and  oil,  Sammy  ?  " 


324  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

It  took  the  crowd  a  little  time  to  digest  this,  but  in  time 
they  did  so,  and  the  gust  of  laughter  that  followed  covered 
the  appearance  of  the  stranger.  He  was  not  to  escape,  how- 
ever, for  as  the  noise  ceased,  "  Is  this  the  Samaritan, 
Sammy  ?  "  asked  the  bass. 

"Where's  your  eyes?"  whined  the  treble.  "He's  the 
big  loaf !  and,  lor,  ain't  he  crumby ! " 

"  If  I  were  down  there —  "  the  Burnley  man  began, 
leaning  over  the  side  of  the  cart. 

"  He's  crusty,  too !  "  cried  the  wit. 

But  this  was  too  much  for  the  chairman.  "Silence! 
Silence !  "  he  cried,  and,  as  at  a  signal,  there  was  a  rush, 
the  two  interrupters  were  seized  and,  surrounded  by  a  gang 
of  hobbledehoys,  were  hustled  down  the  road,  fighting  furi- 
ously and  shouting,  "  Blues !  Blues !  " 

The  chairman  made  use  of  the  lull  to  step  to  the  edge 
of  the  cart  and  take  off  his  hat.  He  looked  about  him, 
pompous  and  important. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "  free  and  independent  electors 
of  our  ancient  borough !  At  a  crisis  such  as  this,  a  crisis 

the  most  momentous — the  most  momentous "  he  paused 

and  looked  into  his  hat,  "  that  history  has  known,  when  the 
very  staff  of  life  is,  one  may  say,  the  apple  of  discord,  it  is 
an  honor  to  me  to  take  the  chair ! " 

"The  cart  you  mean!"  cried  a  voice,  "you're  in  the 
cart ! " 

The  speaker  cast  a  withering  glance  in  the  direction 
whence  the  voice  came,  lost  his  place  and,  failing  to  find 
it,  went  on  in  a  different  strain.  "  I'm  a  business  man," 
he  said,  "  you  all  know  that !  I'm  a  business  man,  and  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  it.  I  stick  to  my  business  and  my  business 

to-day " 

"  Better  go  on  with  it !  " 

But  he  was  getting  set,  and  he  was  not  to  be  abashed. 
"  My  business  to-day,"  he  repeated,  "  is  to  ask  your  at- 
tention for  the  distinguished  candidate  who  seeks  your 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  325 

suffrages,  and  for  the — the  distinguished  gentleman  on  my 
left  who  will  presently  follow  me." 

A  hollow  groan  checked  him  at  this  point,  but  he  recov- 
ered himself.  "  First,  however/'  he  continued,  "  I  propose, 
with  your  permission,  to  say  a  word  on  the — the  great 
question  of  the  day — if  I  may  call  it  so.  It  is  to  the  food 
of  the  people  I  refer ! " 

He  paused  for  cheers,  under  cover  of  which  Banfield 
murmured  to  his  neighbor  that  Hatton  was  set  now  for  half 
an  hour.  He  had  yet  to  learn  that  open-air  meetings  have 
their  advantages. 

"  The  food  of  the  people !  "  Hatton  repeated,  uplifted  by 
the  applause.  "  It  is  to  me  a  sacred  thing!  My  friends,  it 
is  to  me  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  The  bread  is  the  life. 
It  should  go  straight,  untaxed,  untouched  from  the  field 
of  the  farmer  to  the  house  of — of  the  widow  and  the 
orphan !  " 

"  Hear !  Hear !  Hear !  Hear !  "  Then,  "  What  about  the 
miller?" 

"  It  should  go  from  where  it  is  grown/'  Hatton  repeated, 
"  to  where  it  is  needed ;  from  where  it  is  grown  to  the 
homes  of  the  poor !  And  to  the  man/'  slipping  easily  and 
fatally  into  his  Sunday  vein,  "  that  lays  his  'and  upon  it, 
let  him  be  whom  he  may,  I  say  with  the  Book,  '  Thou  shalt 
not  muzzle  the  ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn ! y  The  Law, 
ay,  and  the  Prophets " 

"  Ay,  Hatton's  profits !  Hands  off  them !  "  roared  the 
bass  voice. 

"  Low  bread  and  high  profits ! "  shrieked  the  treble. 
"  Hatton  and  thirty  per  cent !  " 

A  gust  of  laughter  swept  all  away  for  a  time,  and  when 
the  speaker  could  again  get  a  hearing  he  had  lost  his 
thread  and  his  temper.  "  That's  a  low  insinuation !  "  he 
cried,  crimson  in  the  face.  "A  low  insinuation!  I  scorn 
to  answer  it !  " 


326  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Eegular  old  Puseyite  you  be,"  shouted  a  new  tormentor. 
"  Quoting  Scripture." 

Hatton  shook  his  fist  at  the  crowd.  "  A  low,  dirty  in- 
sinuation !  "  he  cried.  "  I  scorn " 

"  You  don't  scorn  the  profits !  " 

"  Listen !  Silence !  "  Then,  "  I  shall  not  say  another 
word!  You're  not  worth  it!  You're  below  it!  I  call  on 
Mr.  Brierly  of  Manchester  to  propose  a  resolution." 

And  casting  vengeful  glances  here  and  there  where  he 
fancied  he  detected  an  opponent,  he  stood  back.  He  began 
for  the  first  time  to  think  the  meeting  a  mistake.  Basset, 
who  had  held  that  opinion  from  the  first,  scanned  the 
crowd  and  had  his  misgivings. 

The  man  from  Manchester,  however,  had  none.  He 
stood  forward,  a  smile  on  his  broad  face,  his  chest  thrown 
forward,  a  something  easy  in  his  air,  as  became  one  who 
had  confronted  thousands  and  was  not  to  be  put  out  of 
countenance  by  a  few  hisses.  He  waited  good-humoredly 
for  silence.  Nor  could  he  see  that,  behind  the  cart,  there 
had  been  gathering  for  some  time  a  band  of  men  of  a 
different  air  from  those  who  faced  the  platform.  These 
men  were  still  coming  up  by  twos  and  threes,  issuing  from 
side-streets;  men  clad  in  homespun  and  with  ruddy  faces, 
men  in  smocked  frocks,  men  in  velveteens;  a  few  with 
belcher  neckerchiefs  and  slouched  felts,  whom  their 
mothers  would  not  have  known.  When  Brierly  raised  his 
hand  and  opened  his  mouth  there  were  over  two  score  of 
these  men — and  they  were  still  coming  up. 

But  Brierly  was  unaware  of  them,  and,  complacent  and 
confident  of  the  effect  he  would  produce,  he  opened  his 
mouth. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  began.  His  voice,  strong  and  musical, 
reached  the  edge  of  the  meeting.  "  Gentlemen,  free 
electors !  And  I  tell  you  straight  no  man  is  free,  no  man 
had  ought  to  be  free " 

Boom !  and  again,  Boom !  Boom !    Not  four  paces  behind, 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  327 

him  a  drum  rolled  heavily,  drowning  his  voice.  He 
stopped,  his  mouth  open;  for  an  instant  surprise  held  the 
crowd  also.  Then  laughter  swept  the  meeting  and  supplied 
a  treble  to  the  drum's  persistent  bass. 

And  still  the  drum  went  on,  Boom !  Boom !  amid  cheers, 
yells,  laughter.  Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  started,  it 
stopped.  More  slowly,  the  hurrahs,  yells,  laughter,  died 
down,  the  laughter  the  last  to  fail,  for  not  only  had  the  big 
man's  face  of  surprise  tickled  the  crowd,  but  the  drum  had 
so  nicely  taken  the  pitch  of  his  voice  that  the  interruption 
seemed  even  to  his  friends  a  joke. 

He  seized  the  opportunity,  but  defiance  not  compla- 
cency was  now  his  note.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  it's 
funny,  but  you  don't  drum  me  down,  let  me  tell  you !  You 
don't  drum  me  down !  What  I  said  I'm  going  to  say  again, 
and  shame  the  devil  and  the  landlords !  Free  men " 

But  he  did  not  say  it.  Boom,  boom,  rolled  the  drum, 
drowning  his  voice  beyond  hope.  And  this  time,  with  the 
fourth  stroke,  a  couple  of  fife*  struck  into  a  sprightly 
measure,  and  the  next  moment  three  score  lively  voices 
were  roaring: 

You've  here  the  little  Peeler, 

Out  of  place  he  will  not  go! 
But  to  keep  it,  don't  he  turn  about 

And  jump  Jim  Crow! 

But  to  keep  it  see  him  turn  about 

And  jump  Jim  Crow! 
Turn  about,  and  wheel  about 

And  do  just  so ! 

Chorus 
The  only  dance  Sir  Robert  knows 

Is  Jump  Jim  Crow! 
The  only  dance  Sir  Robert  knows 

Is  Jump  Jim  Crow! 


328  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

For  a  verse  or  two  the  singers  had  it  their  own  way. 
Then  the  band  of  the  meeting  struck  in  with  "  See,  the 
Conquering  Hero  Comes ! "  and  as  the  airs  clashed  in 
discord,  the  stalwarts  of  the  two  parties  clashed  also  in 
furious  struggle.  In  a  twinkling  and  as  by  magic  the 
scene  changed.  Women,  children,  lads,  fled  every  way, 
screaming  and  falling.  Shrieks  of  alarm  routed  laughter. 
The  crowd  swayed  stormily,  flowed  this  way,  ebbed  that 
way.  The  clatter  of  staves  on  clubs  rang  above  oaths  and 
shouts  of  defiance,  as  the  Yellows  made  a  rush  for  the 
drum.  Men  were  down,  men  were  trampled  on,  men 
strove  to  scale  the  cart,  others  strove  to  descend  from  it. 
But  to  descend  from  it  was  to  descend  into  a  melee  of 
random  fists  and  falling  sticks,  and  the  man  from  Man- 
chester bellowed  to  stand  fast;  while  Hatton  shouted  to 
"  clear  out  these  rogues,"  and  Banfield  called  on  his  men 
to  charge.  Basset  alone  stood  silent,  measuring  the  con- 
flict with  his  eyes.  With  an  odd  exultation  he  felt  his 
spirits  rise  to  meet  the  need. 

He  saw  quickly  that  the  orange  favors  were  out- 
numbered, and  were  giving  way;  and  almost  as  quickly 
that,  so  far  as  mischief  was  meant,  it  was  aimed  at  the 
Manchester  man.  He  was  a  stranger,  he  was  the  delegate 
of  the  League,  he  was  a  marked  man.  Already  there  were 
cries  to  duck  him.  Basset  tapped  Banfield  on  the  shoulder. 

"  They'll  not  touch  us,"  he  shouted  in  the  man's  ear, 
"  but  we  must  get  Brierly  away.  There's  Pritchard's  house 
opposite.  We  must  fight  our  way  to  it.  Pass  the  word !  " 
Then  to  Brierly,  "  Mr.  Brierly,  we  must  get  you  away. 
There's  a  gang  here  means  mischief." 

"  Let  them  come  on !  "  cried  the  Manchester  man,  "  I'm 
not  afraid." 

"  No,  but  I  am,"  Basset  replied.  "  We're  responsible, 
and  we'll  not  have  you  hurt  here.  Down  all !  "  he  cried 
raising  his  voice,  as  he  saw  the  band  whom  he  had  already 
marked,  pressing  up  to  the  cart  through  the  melee — they 


THE  MEETING  AT  THE  MAYPOLE  329 

moved  with  the  precision  of  a  disciplined  force,  and  most 
of  their  faces  were  muffled.  "  Down  all ! "  he  shouted. 
"  Yellows  to  the  rescue !  Down  before  they  upset  us !  " 

The  leaders  scrambled  out  of  the  cart,  some  panic- 
stricken,  some  enjoying  the  scuffle.  They  were  only  just  in 
time.  The  Yellows  were  in  flight,  amid  yells  and  laughter, 
and  before  the  last  of  the  platform  was  over  the  side,  the 
cart  was  tipped  up  by  a  dozen  sturdy  arms.  Hatton  and 
another  were  thrown  down,  but  a  knot  of  their  men,  the 
last  with  fight  in  them,  rallied  to  the  call,  plucked  the  two 
to  their  feet,  and,  striking  out  manfully,  covered  the  rear 
of  the  retreating  force. 

The  men  with  the  belcher  neckerchiefs  pressed  on 
silently,  brandishing  their  clubs,  and  twice  with  cries  of 
"  Down  him !  Down  him !  "  made  a  rush  for  Brierly,  strik- 
ing at  him  over  the  shoulders  of  his  companions.  But  it 
was  plain  that  the  assailants  shrank  from  coming  to  blows 
with  the  local  magnates;  and  Basset  seeing  this  handed 
Brierly  over  to  an  older  man,  and  himself  fell  back  to  cover 
the  retreat. 

"  Fair  play,  men,"  he  cried,  good  humoredly.  And  he 
laughed  in  their  faces  as  he  fell  back  before  them.  "  Fair 
play !  You're  too  many  for  us  to-day,  but  wait  till  the 
polling-day! " 

They  hooted  him.  "  Yah !  Yah !  "  they  cried.  "  You'd 
ruin  the  land  that  bred  you!  You  didn't  ought  to  be 
there !  "  "  Give  us  that  fustian  rascal !  We'll  club  him  !  " 

"  Who  makes  cloth  o'  devil's  dust? "  yelled  another. 
"  Yah !  You  d— -d  cotton-spawn  !  " 

Basset  laughed  in  their  faces,  but  he  was  not  sorry  when 
the  friendly  doorway  received  his  party.  The  country 
gang,  satisfied  with  their  victory,  began  to  fall  back  after 
breaking  a  dozen  panes  of  glass;  and  the  panting  and  dis- 
comfited Yellows,  thronging  the  passage  and  pulling  their 
coats  into  shape,  were  free  to  exchange  condolences  or 
recriminations  as  they  pleased.  More  than  one  had  been 


330  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

against  the  open-air  meeting,  and  Hatton,  a  sorry  figure, 
hatless,  and  with  a  sprained  knee,  was  not  likely  to  hear  the 
end  of  it.  Two  or  three  had  black  eyes,  one  had  lost  two 
teeth,  another  his  hat,  and  Brierly  his  note-book. 

But  almost  before  a  word  had  been  exchanged,  a  man 
pushed  his  way  among  them.  He  had  slipped  into  the 
house  by  the  back  way.  "  For  God's  sake,  gentlemen,"  he 
cried,  "  get  the  constable,  or  there'll  be  murder ! " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  a  dozen  voices. 

"  They've  got  Ben  Bosham,  half  a  hundred  of  them ! 
They're  away  to  the  canal  with  him.  They're  that  mad 
with  him  they'll  drown  him ! " 

So  far  Basset  had  treated  the  affair  as  a  joke.  But 
Bosham's  plight  in  the  hands  of  a  mob  of  angry  farmers 
seemed  more  than  a  joke.  Murder  might  really  be  done. 
He  snatched  a  thick  stick  from  a  corner — he  had  been 
hitherto  unarmed — and  raised  his  voice.  "  Mr.  Banfield," 
he  said,  "  go  to  Stubbs  and  tell  him  what  is  doing !  He 
can  control  them  if  any  one  can.  And  do  some  of  you, 
gentlemen,  come  with  me !  We  must  get  him  from  them." 

"  But  we're  not  enough,"  a  man  protested. 

"  The  man  must  not  be  murdered,"  Basset  replied. 
"  Come,  gentlemen,  they'll  not  dare  to  touch  us  who  know 
them,  and  we've  the  law  with  us !  Come  on !  " 

"  Well  done,  Squire !  "  cried  Brierly.    "  You're  a  man !  " 

"  Ay,  but  I'm  not  man  enough  to  take  you ! "  Basset 
retorted.  "  You  stay  here,  please ! " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

BY   THE   CANAL 

IT  was  noon  on  that  day,  the  day  of  the  meeting  at  Ridds- 
ley,  and  Mary  was  sitting  in  the  parlor  at  the  Gatehouse. 
She  was  stooping  over  the  fire  with  her  eyes  on  the  embers. 
The  old  hound  lay  beside  her  with  his  muzzle  resting  on 
her  shoe,  and  Mrs.  Toft,  solidly  poised  on  her  feet,  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  table,  rolled  her  apron  about  her  arms 
and  considered  the  pair. 

"  It's  given  us  all  a  rare  shock,"  she  said  as  she  marked 
the  girl's  listless  pose,  "  the  poor  Master's  death !  That 
sudden  and  queer,  too!  I  don't  know  that  I'm  better  for 
it,  myself,  and  Toft  goes  up  and  down  like  a  toad  under  a 
harrow,  he's  that  restless !  For  'Truria,  she's  fairly  mazed. 
Her  body's  here  and  her  thoughts  are  lord  knows  where. 
Toft,  he  seems  to  think  something  will  come  of  her  and  her 
reverend " 

"  I  hope  so,"  Mary  said  gently. 

"  But  it's  beyond  me  what  Toft  thinks  these  days.  I 
asked  him  point-blank  yesterday,  *  Toft/  I  says,  '  are  we 
going  or  are  we  staying? '  And,  bless  the  man,  he  looks  at 
me  as  if  he'd  eat  me.  '  Take  time  and  you'll  know,'  he 
says.  '  But  whose  is  the  house? '  I  asks, '  and  who's  to  pay 
us  ? '  '  God  knows ! '  he  says,  and  whiffs  out  of  the  room 
like  one  of  these  lucifers !  " 

"  I  think  that  the  house  is  Mr.  Basset's,"  Mary  ex- 
plained, "  for  the  rest  of  the  lease ;  that's  about  three 
years." 

"But  you'll  not  be  staying,  begging  your  pardon,  Miss? 


332  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

I  suppose  you'll  be  naming  the  day  soon?  The  Master's 
gone  and  his  lordship  will  be  wanting  you  somewhere  else 
than  here." 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Toft,"  Mary  said  quietly.  "  I  suppose 
so." 

Mrs.  Toft  looked  for  a  blush  and  saw  none,  and  she  drew 
her  conclusions.  She  went  on  another  tack.  "  There's  like 
to  be  a  fine  rumpus  in  the  town  to-day,"  she  said  com- 
fortably. "  The  Squire's  brought  a  foreigner  down  to  trim 
their  nails,  and  there's  to  be  a  wagon  and  speaking  and 
such  like  foolishness  at  the  Maypole.  As  if  all  the  speeches 
of  all  the  fools  in  Staffordshire  would  lower  the  quartern 
loaf !  Anyway,  if  what  Fetch  says  is  true,  the  farmers  are 
that  mad  there's  like  to  be  lives  lost !  " 

Mary  stooped  and  carefully  put  a  piece  of  wood  on  the 
fire. 

"  And,  to  be  sure,  they're  a  rough  lot,"  Mrs.  Toft  con- 
tinued, dropping  her  apron.  "  I'm  not  forgetting  what 
happened  to  the  reverend  Colet,  and  I  wish  the  young 
master  safe  out  of  it.  It's  all  give  and  no  take  with 
him,  too  much  for  others  and  too  little  for  himself! 
I'm  thinking  if  anybody's  hurt  he'll  be  there  or  there- 
abouts." 

Mary  turned.  "Is  Fetch — couldn't  Fetch  go  down 
and " 

"La,  Miss,"  Mrs.  Toft  answered — the  girl's  face  told 
her  all  that  she  wished  to  know — "  Fetch  don't  dare,  with 
his  lordship  on  the  other  side !  But,  all  said  and  done,  I'll 
be  bound  the  young  master'll  come  through.  It's  a  pity, 
though,"  she  continued  thoughtfully,  as  she  began  to  dust 
the  sideboard,  "  as  people  don't  know  their  own  minds. 
There's  the  Squire,  now.  He's  lived  quiet  and  pleasant  all 
these  J7ears  and  now  he  must  dip  his  nose  into  this  foolish- 
ness, same  as  if  he  dipped  it  into  hot  worts  when  Toft's 
a-brewing!  I  don't  know  what's  come  to  him.  He  goes 
riding  up  to  Blore  these  winter  nights,  twenty  miles  if  it's 


BY  THE  CANAL  333 

a  furlong,  when  this  house  is  his !  He's  more  like  to  take 
his  death  that  way,  if  I'm  a  judge." 

"  Is  he  doing  that?  "  Mary  asked  in  a  small  voice. 

"  To  be  sure,"  Mrs.  Toft  returned.  "  What  else !  Which 
reminds  me,  Miss,  are  those  papers  to  go  to  the  bank 
to-day?'' 

"  I  believe  so/' 

"  Well,  you're  looking  that  peaky,  you'd  best  take  a  jaunt 
with  them.  Why  not?  It's  a  fine  day,  and  if  there  is  a  bit 
of  a  clash  there's  none  will  hurt  you.  Do  you  go,  Miss, 
and  get  a  little  color  in  your  cheeks.  At  worst,  you'll  bring 
back  the  news  and  I'm  sure  we're  that  dead-alive  and 
moped  a  little's  a  godsend !  " 

"  I  think  I  will  go/'  Mary  said. 

So  when  the  gig,  which  was  to  convey  the  boxes  to  the 
bank,  arrived  about  three,  she  mounted  beside  the  driver. 
Here,  were  it  only  for  an  hour,  was  distraction  and  a 
postponement  of  that  need  to  decide,  to  choose  between  two 
courses,  which  was  crushing  her  under  its  weight. 

For  Mary  was  very  unhappy.  That  moment  which  had 
proved  to  her  that  she  did  not  love  the  man  she  was  to 
marry  and  did  love  another,  had  stamped  itself  on  her 
memory,  never  to  be  wiped  from  it.  In  Audley's  company, 
and  for  a  time  after  they  had  parted,  the  shock  had  numbed 
her  mind  and  dulled  her  feelings.  But  once  alone  and  free 
to  think,  she  had  grasped  all  that  the  discovery  meant — 
to  her  and  to  him;  and  from  that  moment  she  had  not 
known  an  instant  of  ease. 

She  saw  that  she  had  made  a  terrible  mistake,  and  one 
so  vital  that,  if  nothing  could  be  done,  it  must  wreck  her 
happiness  and  another's  happiness.  And  what  was  she  to 
do?  What  ought  she  to  do?  In  a  moment  of  emotion,  led 
astray  by  that  love  of  love  which  is  natural  to  women,  and 
something  swayed — so  she  told  herself  in  scorn — by 

Those  glories  of  our  blood  and  state, 


334  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

which  to  women  are  not  shadows,  she  had  made  this  mis- 
take, and  now,  self-tricked,  she  had  only  herself  to  blame  if 

Sceptre  and  crown 

Were  tumbled  down 
And  in  the  dust  were  lesser  made 
Than  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade ! 

But  to  see  her  folly  did  not  avail.    What  was  she  to  do? 

Ought  she  to  tell  the  truth,  however  painful  it  might  be, 
to  the  man  whom  she  had  deceived?  Or  ought  she  to  go 
through  with  it,  to  do  her  duty  and  save  him  at  least  from 
hurt?  Either  way,  she  had  wrecked  her  own  craft,  but  she 
might  still  hope  to  save  his.  Or — might  she  hope?  She 
was  not  certain  even  of  this. 

What  was  she  to  do  ?  Hour  after  hour  she  asked  herself 
the  question,  sometimes  looking  through  the  windows  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing,  at  others  pacing  her  room  in  a  fever 
of  anxiety.  What  was  she  to  do?  She  could  not  decide. 
Now  she  thought  one  thing,  now  another.  And  time  was 
passing.  No  wonder  that  she  was  glad  even  of  the  dis- 
traction of  this  journey  to  Eiddsley  that  at  another  time 
had  been  so  dull  an  adventure !  It  was,  at  least,  a  reprieve, 
a  respite  from  the  burden  of  decision. 

She  would  not  own,  even  to  herself,  that  she  had  any 
other  thought  in  going,  or  that  anxiety  had  any  part  in 
her  restlessness.  From  that  side  of  the  battle  she  turned 
her  eyes  with  all  the  strength  of  her  will.  Her  conduct  had 
been  that  of  a  silly  girl  rather  than  that  of  a  woman  who 
had  seen  and  suffered ;  but  she  was  not  light — and  besides 
Basset  was  cured.  She  was  only  unfortunate,  and  des- 
perately unhappy. 

As  they  drove  by  the  old  Cross  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  she 
averted  her  eyes.  Surely  it  must  have  been  in  some  other 
life  that  she  had  made  it  the  object  of  a  walk,  and  had 
told  herself  that  she  would  never  forget  it. 

Alas,  she  had  been  right.    She  would  never  forget  it ! 


BY  THE  CANAL  335 

The  man  who  drove  saw  that  her  face  matched  her 
mourning,  and  he  left  her  to  her  thoughts,  so  that  hardly 
a  word  passed  between  them  until  they  were  close  upon 
the  outskirts  of  the  town.  Then  the  driver,  to  whom  the 
dull  winter  landscape,  the  lines  of  willows,  and  the  low 
water-logged  fields,  were  no  novelty,  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"  Dang  me!  "  he  said,  "they've  started!  There's  a  fine 
rumpus  in  the  town.  Do  you  hear  'em,  Miss?  That's  a 
band  I'm  thinking?  " 

"  I  hope  no  one  will  be  hurt" 

The  man  winked  at  his  horse.  "  None  of  the  right  side, 
Miss,"  he  said  slyly.  "  But  it  might  be  a  hanging,  front 
o'  Stafford  gaol,  by  the  roar!  I  met  a  tidy  lot  going  in 
as  I  came  out,  a  right  tidy  lot !  I'm  blest,"  after  listening 
a  moment,  "  if  they're  not  coming  this  way !  " 

"  I  hope  they  won't  do  anything  to " 

"  La,  Miss,"  the  man  answered,  misreading  her  anxiety 
and  interrupting  her,  "  they'll  never  touch  us.  And  for 
the  old  nag,  he's  yeomanry.  He'd  not  start  if  he  met  a 
mile  o'  funerals ! " 

Certainly  the  noise  was  growing.  But  the  lift  of  the 
canal  bridge  and  bank,  which  crossed  the  road  a  hundred 
yards  before  them,  hid  all  of  the  town  from  them  save  a 
couple  of  church  towers,  some  tiled  roofs,  and  the  brick 
gable  of  Hatton's  Works.  The  man  whipped  up  his  horse. 

"  Teach  they  Manchester  chaps  a  trick !  "  he  muttered. 
"  Shouldn't  wonder  if  there'll  be  work  for  the  crowner  out 
of  this !  Gee-up,  old  nag,  let's  see  what's  afoot !  'Pears  to 
me,"  as  the  shouting  grew  plainer,  "we'll  be  in  at  the 
death  yet,  Miss !  " 

Mary  winced  at  the  word,  but  if  the  man  feared  that  she 
would  refuse  to  go  on,  he  was  mistaken.  On  the  contrary, 
she  looked  eagerly  to  the  front  as  the  old  horse,  urged  by 
the  whip,  took  the  rise  of  the  bridge  at  a  canter,  and, 
having  reached  the  crown,  relapsed  into  an  absent-minded 
walk. 


,336  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Dang  me !  "  cried  the  driver,  greatly  excited,  "  but  they 
do  mean  business !  It's  in  knee  in  neck  with  'em !  Xever 
thought  it  would  come  to  this.  And  who  is't  they've  got; 
Miss?" 

Certainly  there  was  something  out  of  the  common  on 
foot.  Moving  to  meet  the  gig,  and  filling  the  road  from 
ditch  to  ditch,  appeared  a  disorderly  crowd  of  two  or  three 
hundred  persons.  Cheering,  hooting,  and  brandishing 
sticks,  they  came  on  at  something  between  a  walk  and  a 
run,  although  in  the  heart  of  the  mass  there  was  a  some- 
thing that  now  and  again  checked  the  movement,  and  once 
brought  it  to  a  stand.  When  this  happened  the  crowd 
eddied  and  flowed  about  the  object  in  its  centre  and  pres- 
ently swept  on  again  with  the  same  hooting  and  laughter. 

But  in  the  laughter,  as  in  the  hooting,  there  was,  after 
each  of  these  pauses,  a  more  savage  note. 

"What  is  it?"  Mary  cried,  as  the  driver,  scared  by  the 
sight,  pulled  up  his  horse.  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"D — n  me,"  the  man  replied,  forgetting  his  manners, 
"  if  I  don't  think  it's  Ben  Bosham  they've  got !  It  is  Ben ! 
And  they're  for  ducking  him !  It's  mortal  deep  by  the 
bridge  there,  and  s'help  me,  if  it's  not  ten  to  one  they 
drown  him ! " 

"  Ben  Bosham  ?  "  Mary  repeated.  Then  she  recalled  the 
name.  She  remembered  what  Mrs.  Toft  had  said  of  him 
— that  the  man  had  a  wife  and  would  bring  her  to  ruin. 
The  crowd  was  not  fifty  yards  from  them  now  and  was  still 
coming  on.  To  the  left  a  track  ran  down  to  the  towing- 
path  and  the  canal,  and  already  the  leaders  of  the  mob 
were  swerving  in  that  direction.  As  they  did  so — and  were 
once  more  checked  for  a  moment — Mary  espied  among 
them  a  man's  bald  head  twisting  this  way  and  that,  as  he 
strove  to  escape.  The  man  was  struggling  desperately,  his 
clothes  almost  torn  from  his  back,  but  he  was  helpless  in 
the  hands  of  a  knot  of  stout  fellows,  and  after  a  brief 
resistance  he  was  hauled  forcibly  on.  A  hundred  jeering 


BY  THE  CANAL  337 

voices  rose  about  him,  and  a  something  cruel  in  the  sound 
chilled  Mary's  blood.  The  dreary  scene,  the  sluggish  canal, 
the  flat  meadows,  the  rising  mist,  all  pressed  on  her  mind 
and  deepened  the  note  of  tragedy. 

But  on  that  she  broke  the  spell.  The  blood  in  her 
spoke.  She  clutched  the  driver's  arm  and  shook  it.  "  Go 
on !  "  she  cried.  "  Go  on !  Drive  into  them  !  " 

The  man  hesitated — he  saw  that  the  crowd  was  in  no 
jesting  mood.  But  the  old  horse  felt  the  twitch  on  the 
reins  and  started,  and  having  the  slope  with  him,  trotted 
gently  forward  as  if  the  road  were  empty  before  him.  The 
crowd  waved  and  shouted,  and  cursed  the  driver.  But  the 
horse,  thinking  perhaps  that  this  was  some  new  form  of 
parade,  only  cocked  his  ears  and  ambled  on  till  he  reached 
the  foremost.  Then  a  man  seized  the  rein,  jerked  it,  and 
stopped  him. 

In  a  moment  Mary  sprang  down,  heedless  of  the  fact 
that  she  was  one  woman  among  a  hundred  men.  She  faced 
the  crowd,  her  eyes  bright  with  indignation.  "  Let  that 
man  go/'  she  cried,  "  Do  you  hear  ?  Do  you  want  to 
murder  him?"  And,  advancing  a  step,  she  laid  her  hand 
on  Ben  Bosham's  ragged,  filthy  sleeve — he  had  been  down 
more  than  once  and  been  rolled  in  the  mud.  "  Let  him 
go !  "  she  continued  imperiously.  "  Do  you  know  who  I 
am,  you  cowards?  Let  him  go !  " 

"  Yah !  "  shouted  the  crowd,  and  drowned  her  voice  and 
pressed  roughly  about  her,  threatened  her.  One  of  the 
foremost  asked  her  what  she  would  do,  another  cried  that 
she  had  best  make  herself  scarce!  Furious  faces  sur- 
rounded her,  fists  were  shaken  at  her.  But  Mary  was  not 
daunted.  "  If  you  don't  let  him  go,  I  shall  go  to  Lord 
Audley !  "  she  said. 

"  You're  a  fool  meddling  in  this  1 "  cried  a  voice. 
"  We're  only  going  to  wash  the  devil ! " 

"You  will  let  him  go!"  she  replied,  facing  them  all 
without  fear  and,  advancing  a  step,  she  actually  plucked 


338  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

the  man  from  the  hands  that  held  him.  "  I  am  Miss 
Audley !  If  you  do  not  let  him  go " 

"  We're  only  going  to  wash  him,  lady,"  whined  one  of 
the  men  who  held  him. 

"That's  all,  lady!"  chimed  in  half-a-dozen.  "He 
wants  it! " 

But  Ben  was  not  of  that  opinion,  or  he  did  not  value 
cleanliness.  "  They're  going  to  drown  me ! "  he  spluttered, 
his  eyes  wild.  All  the  fight  had  been  knocked  out  of  him. 
"  They're  paid  to  do  it !  They'll  drown  me !  " 

"  And  sarve  him  right !  "  shouted  half-a-dozen  at  the  rear 
of  the  crowd.  "  Sarve  him  right,  the  devil !  " 

"  They  will  not  do  it !  "  Mary  said  firmly.  "  They'll  not 
lay  another  hand  on  you.  Get  in !  Get  in  here !  "  And 
then  to  the  crowd,  "  For  shame ! "  she  cried.  "  Stand 
back ! » 

The  man  was  so  shaken  that  he  could  not  help  himself, 
but  she  pushed,  the  driver  pulled,  and  in  a  trice,  before  the 
mob  had  recovered  from  its  astonishment,  Ben  was  above 
their  heads,  on  the  seat  of  the  gig — a  blubbering,  ragged, 
mud-caked  figure  with  a  white  face  and  bleeding  lips. 
"  Go  on !  "  Mary  said  in  the  same  tone,  and  the  gig  moved 
forward,  the  old  yeomanry  horse  tossing  its  head.  She 
moved  on  beside  it  with  her  hand  on  the  rail. 

The  mob  let  them  pass,  but  closed  in  behind  them,  and 
after  a  pause  began  to  jeer — a  little  in  amusement,  a  little 
to  cover  its  defeat.  In  a  moment  farce  took  the  place  of 
tragedy ;  the  danger  was  over.  "  We'll  tell  your  wife, 
Ben ! "  screamed  a  youth,  and  the  crowd  laughed  and 
followed.  Other  wits  took  their  turn.  "  You'll  want  a  new 
coat  for  the  wedding,  Ben ! "  cried  one.  And  now  and 
again  amid  the  laughter  a  sterner  note  survived.  "  We'll 
ha'  you  yet,  Ben ! "  a  man  would  cry.  "  You're  not  out 
of  the  wood  yet,  Ben !  " 

Mary's  face  burned,  but  she  stuck  to  her  post,  plodding 
on  beside  the  gig,  and  after  this  fashion  the  queer  pro- 


BY  THE  CANAL  339 

cession,  heralded  by  a  score  of  urchins  crying  the  news, 
entered  the  streets  of  the  town.  On  either  side  women 
thronged  the  doorways  and  steps,  and  while  some  cried, 
"Bravo,  Miss!  "  others  laughed  and  called  to  their  neigh- 
bors to  come  out  and  see  the  sight.  And  still  the  crowd 
clung  to  the  rear  of  the  gig,  and  hooted  and  laughed  and 
pretended  to  make  forays  on  it. 

Mary  had  hoped  to  shake  them  off,  but  as  they  persisted 
in  following  and  no  relief  came — for  Basset  and  his  rescue 
party  had  gone  to  the  canal  by  another  road — she  saw  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  go  on  to  Lord  Audley's.  With  a  curt  word 
she  made  the  man  turn  that  way. 

The  crowd  still  attended,  curious,  amused.  It  had 
doubled  its  numbers,  nay,  had  trebled  them.  There  were 
friends  as  well  as  foes  among  them  now,  some  of  Hatton's 
men,  some  of  Banfield's,  yellow  favors  as  well  as  blue.  If 
Mary  had  known  it,  she  might  have  set  Ben  down  and  not 
a  hand  would  have  been  laid  upon  him.  Even  the  leaders 
of  the  riot  were  now  thankful  that  they  had  not  carried  the 
matter  farther.  Enough  had  been  done. 

But  Mary  did  not  know  this.  She  thought  that  the  man 
was  still  in  peril.  She  did  not  dream  of  leaving  him.  And 
it  was  at  the  head  of  a  crowd  of  three  or  four  hundred  of 
the  riff-raff  of  Eiddsley  that  she  broke  in  upon  the  quiet 
of  the  suburban  road  in  which  The  Butterflies  stood. 
Tumultuously,  followed  by  laughter  and  hooting  and 
cheers,  she  swept  along  it  with  her  train,  and  came  to  a 
halt  before  the  house. 

No  house  was  ever  more  surprised.  Mrs.  Wilkinson's 
scared  face  peered  above  one  blind,  her  sisters'  caps  showed 
above  another.  Was  it  an  accident ?  Was  it  a  riot?  Was 
it  a  Puseyite  protest?  What  was  it?  Every  servant,  every 
neighbor,  Lord  Audley  himself  came  to  the  windows. 

Mary  signed  to  the  driver  to  help  Ben  down,  and  the 
moment  the  man's  foot  touched  the  ground  she  grasped  his 
arm.  With  a  burning  face,  but  with  her  head  in  the  air, 


340  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

she  guided  his  stumbling  footsteps  through  the  gate  and 
along  the  paved  walk.  They  came  together  to  the  door. 
They  went  in. 

The  crowd  formed  up  five  deep  along  the  railings,  and 
waited  in  wondering  silence  to  see  what  would  happen. 
What  would  his  lordship  say?  What  would  his  lordship 
do?  This  was  bringing  the  election  to  his  doors  with  a 
vengeance,  and  there  were  not  a  few  of  the  better  sort  who 
saw  the  fun  of  the  situation. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

MY   LORD   SPEAKS  OUT 

MARY  had  passed  through  twenty  minutes  of  tense  excite- 
ment. The  risk  had  been  slight,  after  the  first  moment  of 
intervention,  but  she  had  not  known  this,  and  she  was  still 
trembling  with  indignation,  a  creature  all  fire  and  passion, 
when  the  door  of  The  Butterflies  opened  to  admit  her. 
Leaving  Ben  Bosham  on  the  threshold  she  lost  not  a 
moment,  but  with  her  story  on  her  lips,  hurried  up  the 
stairs,  and  on  the  landing  came  plump  upon  Lord  Audley. 

From  the  window  he  had  seen  something  of  what  was 
afoot  below.  He  had  recognized  Mary  and  the  tattered 
Bosham,  and  he  had  read  the  riddle,  grasped  the  facts,  and 
cursed  the  busybody,  all  within  thirty  seconds.  "  D — n  it! 
this  passes  everything,"  he  had  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
turned  from  the  window  in  disgust.  "  This  is  altogether 
too  much ! "  And  he  had  opened  the  door — ready  also  to 
open  his  mind  to  her ! 

"What  in  the  world  is  it?"  he  asked.  He  held  the 
door  for  her  to  enter.  "  What  has  happened  ?  I  could  not 
believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw  you  in  company  with  that 
wretched  creature ! "  he  continued.  "  And  all  the  tagrag 
and  bobtail  in  the  place  behind  you?  What  is  it,  Mary?  " 

She  felt  the  check,  and  the  color,  which  excitement  had 
brought  to  her  cheeks,  faded.  But  she  thought  that  it  was 
only  that  he  did  not  understand,  and,  "  That  wretched  crea- 
ture, as  you  call  him,"  she  cried,  "has  just  escaped  from 
death.  They  were  going  to  murder  him !  " 

"Murder  him?"  Audley  repeated.  He  raised  his  eye- 
brows. "  Murder  him?  "  coldly.  "  My  dear  girl,  don't  be 


342  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

silly !  Don't  let  yourself  be  carried  away.  You've  lost 
your  head.  And,  pardon  me  for  saying  it,  I  am  afraid 
have  made  a  fool  of  yourself !  And  of  me !  " 

"  But  they  were  going  to  throw  him  into  the  canal ! " 
she  protested. 

"  Going  to  wash  him !  "  he  replied  cynically.  "  And  a 
good  thing  too !  It's  a  pity  they  left  the  job  undone.  The 
man  is  a  low,  pestilent  fellow !  "  he  continued  severely, 
"  and  obnoxious  to  me  and  to  all  decent  people.  The  idea 
of  bringing  him,  and  that  pleasant  tail,  to  my  house — my 
dear  girl,  it's  absurd !  " 

He  made  no  attempt  to  soften  his  tone  or  suppress  his 
annoyance,  and  she  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  Yet 
she  still  thought,  or  she  strove  to  think,  that  he  did  not 
understand,  and  tried  to  make  the  facts  clear.  "  But  you 
don't  know  what  they  were  like,"  she  protested.  "  You 
were  not  there.  They  had  torn  the  clothes  from  his 
back " 

"  I  can  see  that." 

"  And  he  was  so  terrified  that  it  was  dreadful  to  see  him ! 
They  were  handling  him  brutally,  horribly!  And  then  I 
came  up  and " 

"And  lost  your  head!"  he  said.  "I  dare  say  you 
thought  all  this.  But  do  you  know  anything  about  elec- 
tions?" 

«  No " 

" Have  you  ever  see  an  election  in  progress  before?  " 

"  No." 

"  Just  so,"  he  replied  dryly.  "  Well,  if  you  had,  you 
would  know  that  brawls  of  this  kind  are  common  things, 
the  commonest  of  things  at  such  a  time,  and  that  sensible 
people  turn  their  backs  on  them.  You've  chosen  to  turn 
the  farce  into  a  tragedy,  and  in  doing  so  you've  made  your- 
self ridiculous — and  me  too !  " 

"  If  you  had  seen  them,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  think  you 
would  speak  as  you  are  speaking." 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  OUT  343 

"  My  dear  girl/'  he  replied,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
"I  have  seen  many  such  things,  many.  But  there  is  one 
thing  I  have  never  seen,  and  that  is  a  man  killed  in  an 
election  squabble!  The  whole  thing  is  childish — silly! 
The  least  knowledge  of  the  world " 

"  Would  have  saved  me  from  it?  " 

"  Exactly !  Would  have  saved  you  from  it ! "  he 
answered  austerely.  "  And  me  from  a  very  annoying  inci- 
dent !  Peers  have  nothing  to  do  with  elections,  as  you 
ought  to  know;  and  to  bring  this  mob  of  all  sorts  to  my 
door  as  if  the  matter  touched  me,  is  to  compromise  me. 
It  is  past  a  joke !  " 

Mary  stared.  She  was  trying  to  place  herself.  Cer- 
tainly this  was  the  room  in  which  she  had  taken  tea,  and 
this  was  the  man  who  had  welcomed  her,  who  had  hung 
over  her,  whose  eyes  had  paid  her  homage,  who  had  fore- 
seen her  least  want,  who  had  lapped  her  in  observance. 
This  was  the  man  and  this  the  room,  and  there  was  the 
chair  in  which  good  Mrs.  Wilkinson  had  sat  and  beamed 
on  her. 

But  there  was  a  change  somewhere;  and  the  change  was 
in  the  man.  Could  it  mean  that  he,  too,  had  made  a 
mistake  and  now  recognized  it?  That  he,  too,  had  found 
that  he  did  not  love?  But  in  that  case  this  was  not  the 
way  to  confess  an  error.  His  tone,  his  manner,  which  held 
no  respect  for  the  woman  and  no  softness  for  the  sweet- 
heart, were  far  from  the  tone  of  one  in  the  wrong.  On 
the  contrary,  they  presented  a  side  of  him  which  had  been 
hitherto  hidden  from  her;  a  phase  of  the  strength  that  she 
had  admired,  which  shocked  her  even  while,  as  deep  calls 
to  deep,  it  roused  her  pride.  She  remembered  that  she  was 
his  betrothed,  and  that  he  had  wooed  her,  he  had  chosen 
her.  And  on  slight  provocation  he  spoke  to  her  in  this 
strain ! 

She  sought  the  clue,  she  fancied  that  she  held  it,  and 
from  this  moment  she  was  on  her  guard.  She  was  quiet, 


344  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

but  there  was  a  smouldering  fire  in  her  eyes.  "  Perhaps  I 
was  wrong,"  she  said.  "  I  have  had  little  experience  of 
these  things.  But  are  not  you,  on  your  side,  making  too 
much  of  this  ?  Too  much  of  a  very  small,  a  very  natural 
mistake  ?  Isn't  it  a  trifle  after  all  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  of  a  trifle  as  you  think ! "  he  retorted. 
"  A  man  in  my  position  has  to  follow  a  certain  line  of 
conduct.  A  girl  in  yours  should  be  careful  to  guide  her- 
self by  my  views.  Instead,  out  of  a  foolish  sentimentality, 
you  run  directly  counter  to  them!  It  is  too  late  to  con- 
sider your  relation  to  me  when  the  harm  is  done,  my 
dear." 

"  Perhaps  we  have  neither  of  us  considered  the  relation 
quite  enough  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  we  have."  And  again,  "  I  am  not 
sure,  Mary,  that  we  have,"  he  repeated  more  soberly. 

She  knew  what  he  meant  now — knew  what  was  in  his 
mind  almost  as  clearly  as  if,  instead  of  grasping  his  con- 
clusion, she  had  been  a  party  to  his  reasons.  And  she 
closed  her  lips,  a  spot  of  color  in  each  cheek.  In  other  cir- 
cumstances she  would  have  taken  on  herself  a  full,  nay,  the 
main  share,  of  the  blame.  She  would  have  been  quick  to 
admit  that  she,  too,  had  made  a  mistake,  and  that  no  harm 
was  done. 

But  his  manner  opened  her  eyes  to  many  things  that  had 
been  a  puzzle  to  her.  Thought  is  swift,  and  in  a  flash  her 
mind  had  travelled  over  the  whole  course  of  their  engage- 
ment, had  recalled  his  long  absence,  the  chill  of  his  letters, 
the  infrequency  of  his  visits ;  and  she  saw  by  that  light  that 
this  was  no  sudden  shift,  but  an  occasion  sought  and  seized. 
Therefore  she  would  not  help  him.  She  at  least  had  been 
honest,  she  at  least  had  been  in  earnest.  She  had  tricked, 
not  him  only,  but  herself ! 

She  closed  her  lips  and  waited,  therefore.  And  he, 
knowing  that  he  had  now  burned  his  boats,  had  to  go  on. 
"I  am  not  sure  that  we  did  think  enough  about  it?"  he 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  OUT  345 

said  doggedly.  "I  have  suspected  for  some  time  that  I 
acted  hastily  in — in  asking  you  to  be  my  wife,  Mary/' 

"  Indeed  ?  "  she  said. 

"Yes.  And  what  has  happened  to-day,  proving  that  we 
look  at  things  so  differently,  has  confirmed  my  suspicion. 
It  has  convinced  me — "  he  looked  down  at  his  table,  avoid- 
ing her  eyes,  but  continued  firmly — "  that  we  are  not  suited 
to  one  another.  The  wife  of  a  man,  placed  as  I  am,  should 
have  an  idea  of  values,  a  certain  reserve,  that  comes  of  a 
knowledge  of  the  world;  above  all,  no  sentimental  notions 
such  as  lead  to  mistakes  like  this."  He  indicated  the  street 
by  a  gesture.  "  If  I  was  mistaken  a  while  ago  in  listening 
to  my  feelings  rather  than  to  my  prudence,  if  I  gave  you 
credit  for  knowledge  which  you  had  had  no  means  of 
gaining,  I  wronged  you,  Mary,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it.  But 
I  should  be  doing  you  a  far  greater  wrong  if  I  remained 
silent  now." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  you 
wish  it  to  be  at  an  end  between  us?  That  you  wish  to — 
to  throw  me  over?  " 

He  smiled  awry.  "  That  is  an  unpleasant  way  of  put- 
ting it,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said.  "  However,  I  am  in  the  wrong, 
and  I  have  no  right  to  quarrel  with  a  word.  I  do  think 
that  to  break  off  our  engagement  at  once  is  the  best  and 
wisest  thing  for  both  of  us." 

"  How  long  have  you  felt  this?  "  she  asked. 

"  For  some  time,"  he  replied,  measuring  his  words,  "  I 
have  been  coming  slowly — to  that  conclusion." 

"  That  I  am  not  fitted  to  be  your  wife?" 

"If  you  like  to  put  it  so." 

Then  her  anger,  hitherto  kept  under,  flamed  up.  "  Then 
what  right,"  she  cried,  "  if  that  was  in  your  mind,  had  you 
to  treat  me  as  you  treated  me  at  Beaudelays — in  the 
garden?  What  right  had  you  to  kiss  me?  Rather,  what 
right  had  you  to  insult  me?  For  it  was  an  insult — it  was 
an  insult,  if  you  were  not  going  to  marry  me !  Don't  you 


346  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

know,  sir,  that  it  was  vile  ?     That  it  was  unforgivable  ?  " 

She  had  never  looked  more  handsome,  never  more  at- 
tractive than  at  this  moment.  The  day  was  failing,  but 
the  glow  of  the  fire  fell  on  her  face,  and  on  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  anger.  He  took  in  the  picture,  he  owned 
her  charm,  he  even  came  near  to  repenting.  But  it  was 
too  late,  and  "  It  may  have  been  vile — and  you  may  not 
forgive  it,"  he  answered  hardily,  "  but  I'd  do  it  again,  my 
dear,  on  the  same  provocation !  " 

"  You  would " 

"  I  would  do  it  again/'  he  repeated  coolly.  "  Don't  you 
know  that  you  are  handsome  enough  to  turn  any  man's 
head?  And  what  is  a  kiss  after  all?  We  are  cousins. 
If  you  were  not  such  a  prude,  I  would  kiss  you 
now?" 

She  was  furiously  angry — or  she  fancied  that  she  was. 
But  it  may  be  that,  deep  down  in  her  woman's  mind,  she 
was  not  truly  angry.  And,  indeed,  how  could  she  be  angry 
when  in  her  heart  a  little  bird  was  beginning  to  sing — was 
telling  her  that  she  was  free,  that  presently  this  cloud  would 
be  behind  her,  and  that  the  sky  would  be  blue  ?  Already  the 
message  was  making  itself  heard,  already  she  was  finding 
it  hard  to  keep  up  appearances,  to  frown  upon  him  and 
play  her  part. 

Yet  she  flashed  out  at  him.  Was  he  not  going  too  fast, 
was  he  not  riding  off  too  lightly?  "  Oh !  "  she  cried,  "  You 
dare  to  say  that!  Even  while  you  break  off  with 
me!" 

But  his  selfish,  masterful  nature  had  now  the  upper 
hand.  He  had  eaten  his  leek  and  he  was  anxious  to  be 
done  with  it.  "  And  what  then  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  believe  that 
you  know  that  I  am  right.  I  believe  that  you  know  that 
we  are  not  suited  to  one  another." 

"  And  you  think  I  will  let  you  go  at  a  word  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  will  let  me  go,"  he  said,  "  because  you  are 
not  a  fool,  Mary.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  you 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  OUT  347 

might  be  'my  lady'  at  too  high  a  price.  I'm  not  the 
most  manageable  of  men.  I'd  make  a  decent  husband,  all 
being  well.  But  I'm  not  meek  and  I'd  make  a  very  un- 
handy husband  malgre  mot/' 

The  threat  exasperated  her.  "  I  know  this  at  least,"  she 
retorted,  "  that  I  would  not  marry  you  now,  if  you  were 
twenty  times  my  lord!  You  have  behaved  meanly,  and  I 
believe  falsely !  Xot  to-day !  You  are  speaking  the  truth 
to-day.  But  I  believe  that  from  the  start  you  had  this  in 
your  mind,  that  you  foresaw  this,  and  were  careful  not  to 
commit  yourself  too  publicly !  What  I  don't  understand  is 
why  you  ever  asked  me  to  be  your  wife — at  all?  " 

"  Look  in  the  glass !  "  he  answered  impudently. 

She  put  that  aside.  "But  I  suppose  that  you  had  a 
reason ! "  she  returned.  "  That  you  loved  me,  that  you 
felt  for  me  anything  worthy  of  the  name  of  love  is  im- 
possible! For  the  rest,  let  me  tell  you  this!  If  I  ever 
felt  thankful  for  anything  I  am  thankful  for  the  chance 
that  brought  me  to  your  house  to-day — and  brought  me  to 
the  truth ! " 

"  Anything  more  to  say  ?  "  he  asked  flippantly.  The  way 
she  was  taking  it  suited  him  better  than  if  she  had  wept 
and  appealed.  And  then  she  was  so  confoundedly  good- 
looking  in  her  tantrums ! 

"  Nothing  more,"  she  said.  "  I  think  that  we  understand 
one  another  now.  At  any  rate,  I  understand  you.  Perhaps 
you  will  kindly  see  if  I  can  leave  the  house  without  annoy- 
ance/' 

He  looked  into  the  street.  Dusk  had  fallen,  the  lamp- 
lighter was  going  his  rounds.  Of  the  crowd  that  had 
attended  Mary  to  the  house  no  more  than  a  handful 
remained ;  the  nipping  air,  the  attractions  of  free  beer,  the 
sound  of  the  muffin-bell,  had  drawn  away  the  rest.  The 
driver  of  the  gig  was  moving  to  and  fro,  now  looking  dis- 
consolately at  the  windows,  now  beating  his  fingers  on  his 
chest 


348  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  I  think  you  can  leave  with  safety,"  Audley  said  with 
irony.  "  I  will  see  you  downstairs." 

"  I  will  not  trouble  you,"  she  answered. 

"  But,  surely,  we  may  still  be  friends  ?  " 

She  looked  him  in  the  face.  "  We  need  not  be  enemies," 
she  answered.  "  And,  perhaps,  some  day  I  may  be  able  to 
think  more  kindly  of  you.  If  that  day  comes  I  will  tell 
you.  Good-bye."  She  went  out  without  touching  his  hand. 
She  went  down  the  stairs. 

She  drove  through  the  dusky,  dimly-lighted  streets  in  a 
kind  of  dream,  seeing  all  things  through  a  pleasant  haze. 
The  bank  was  closed  and  to  deliver  up  her  papers  she  had 
to  go  into  the  bank-house.  The  glimpse  she  had  of  the 
cheerful  parlor,  of  the  manager's  wife,  of  his  two  children 
playing  the  Eoyal  Game  of  Goose  at  a  round  table,  en- 
chanted her.  Presently  she  was  driving  again  through  the 
darkling  streets,  passing  the  Maypole,  passing  the  quaint, 
low-browed  shops,  lit  only  by  an  oil  lamp  or  a  couple  of 
candles.  The  Audley  Arms,  the  Packhorse,  the  Portcullis, 
were  all  alight  and  buzzing  with  the  voices  of  those  who 
fought  their  battles  over  again  or  laid  bets  on  this  candi- 
date or  that.  "What  the  speaker  had  said  to  Lawyer  Stubbs 
and  what  Lawyer  Stubbs  had  said  to  the  speaker,  what  the 
"  Duke  "  thought,  who  would  have  to  pay  for  the  damage, 
and  the  odds  the  stout  farmer  would  give  that  wheat 
wouldn't  be  forty  shillings  a  quarter  this  day  twelvemonth 
if  the  Eepeal  passed — scraps  of  these  and  the  like  poured 
from  the  doorways  as  she  drove  by. 

All  fell  in  delightfully  with  her  mood  and  filled  her  with 
a  sense  of  well-being.  Even  when  the  streets  lay  behind 
her,  and  the  driver  hunched  his  shoulders  to  meet  the  damp 
night-fog  and  the  dreary  stretch  that  lay  beyond  the  canal- 
bridge,  Mary  found  the  darkness  pleasant  and  the  chill  no 
more  than  bracing.  For  what  were  that  night,  that  chill 
beside  the  numbing  grip  from  which  she  had  just — oh, 
thing  miraculous! — escaped!  Beside  the  fetters  that  had 


MY  LORD  SPEAKS  OUT  349 

been  lifted  from  her  within  the  last  hour !  0  foolish  girl, 
0  ineffable  idiot,  to  have  ever  fancied  that  she  loved  that 
man! 

No,  for  her  it  was  a  charming  night!  The  owl  that, 
far  away  towards  the  Great  House,  hooted  dolefully  above 
the  woods — no  nightingale  had  been  more  tuneful.  Ben 
Bosham — she  laughed,  thinking  of  his  plight — blessings  on 
his  bare,  bald  head  and  his  ragged  shoulders!  The  old 
horse  plodding  on,  with  the  hill  that  mounts  to  the  Gate- 
house sadly  on  his  mind — he  should  have  oats,  if  oats  there 
were  in  the  Gatehouse  stables!  He  should  have  oats  in 
plenty,  or  what  he  would  if  oats  failed ! 

"  What  do  you  give  him  when  he's  tired?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,"  the  driver  replied  with  diplomacy,  "  times  a 
quart  of  ale,  Miss.  He'll  take  it  like  a  Christian." 

"  Then  a  quart  of  ale  he  shall  have  to-night ! "  she  said 
witli  a  happy  laugh.  "  And  you  shall  have  one,  too, 
Simonds." 

Her  mood  held  to  the  end,  so  that  before  she  was  out  of 
her  wraps,  Mrs.  Toft  was  aware  of  the  change  in  her. 
"Why,  Miss/'  she  said,  "you  look  like  another  creature! 
It  isn't  the  bank,  I'll  be  bound,  has  put  that  color  in  your 
cheeks ! " 

"  No ! "  Mary  answered,  "  Fve  had  an  adventure,  Mrs. 
Toft.  And  briefly  she  told  the  tale  of  Ben  Bosham's 
plight  and  of  her  gallant  rescue.  She  began  herself  to  see 
the  comic  side  of  it. 

"  He  always  was  a  fool,  was  Ben !  "  Mrs.  Toft  com- 
mented. "  And  that,"  she  continued  shrewdly,  "  was  how 
you  come  to  see  his  lordship  was  it,  Miss  ?  " 

"  How  did  you  know  I  saw  him  ?  "  Mary  asked  in  sur- 
prise. "But  you're  right,  I  did."  Then,  as  she  entered 
the  parlor,  "  Perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you,  Mrs.  Toft,"  she 
said,  "  that  the  engagement  between  my  cousin  and  myself 
is  at  an  end.  You  were  one  of  the  very  few  who  knew  of 
it,  and  so  I  tell  you." 


350  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Toft  showed  no  surprise.  "Indeed,  Miss,"  she 
answered,  stooping  to  the  hearth  to  light  the  candles  with 
a  piece  of  wood.  "  Well,  one  thing's  certain,  and  many  a 
time  my  mother's  drummed  it  into  me,  '  Better  a  plain  shoe 
than  one  that  pinches ! '  And  again,  '  Better  live  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hill  than  the  top/  she'd  say.  *  You  see 
less  but  you  believe  more/  }: 

Neither  she  nor  Mary  saw  Toft.  But  Toft,  who  had 
entered  the  hall  a  moment  before,  was  within  hearing,  and 
Mary's  statement,  so  coolly  received  by  his  wife,  had  an 
extraordinary  effect  on  the  man-servant.  He  stood  an  in- 
stant, his  lank  figure  motionless.  Then  he  opened  the  door 
beside  him,  slipped  out  into  the  chill  and  the  darkness,  and 
silently,  but  with  extravagant  gestures,  he  broke  into  a 
dance,  now  waving  his  thin  arms  in  the  air,  now  stooping 
with  his  hands  locked  between  his  knees.  Whether  he  thus 
found  vent  for  joy  or  grief  was  a  secret  which  he  kept  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  EIDDSLEY   ELECTION 

THE  riot  at  Riddsley  found  its  way  into  the  London  Press, 
and  gained  for  the  contest  a  certain  amount  of  notoriety. 
The  Morning  Chronicle  pointed  out  that  the  election  had 
been  provoked  by  the  Protectionists  in  a  constituency  in 
Sir  Eobert's  own  country;  and  the  writer  inferred  that, 
foreseeing  defeat,  the  party  of  the  land  were  now  resorting 
to  violence.  The  Morning  Herald  rejoiced  that  there  were 
still  places  which  would  not  put  up  with  the  incursions  of 
the  Manchester  League,  "  the  most  knavish,  pestilent  body 
of  men  that  ever  plagued  this  or  any  country !  "  In  the 
House,  where  the  tempest  of  the  Repeal  debate  already 
raged,  and  the  air  was  charged  with  the  stern  invective  of 
Disraeli,  or  pulsed  to  the  cheering  of  Peel's  supporters — 
even  here  men  discussed  the  election  at  Riddsley,  considered 
it  a  clue  to  the  feeling  in  the  country,  and  on  the  one  side 
hardly  dared  to  hope,  on  the  other  refused  to  fear.  What  ? 
cried  the  Land  Party.  Be  defeated  in  an  agricultural 
borough  ?  Never ! 

For  a  brief  time,  then,  the  contest  filled  the  public  eye 
and  presented  itself  as  a  thing  of  more  than  common  in- 
terest. Those  who  knew  little  weighed  the  names  and  the 
past  of  the  candidates;  those  behind  the  scenes  whispered 
of  Lord  Audley.  Whips  gave  thought  to  him,  and  that  one 
to  whom  his  lordship  was  pledged,  wrote  graciously,  hinting 
at  the  pleasant  things  that  might  happen  if  all  went  well, 
and  the  present  winter  turned  to  a  summer  of  fruition. 

Alas,  Audley  felt  that  the  Whip's  summer,  and 


352  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

The  friendly  beckon  towards  Downing  Street, 
Which  a  Premier  gives  to  one  who  wishes 
To  taste  of  the  Treasury  loaves  and  fishes, 

were  very  remote,  whereas,  if  the  other  Whip,  he  who  had 
the  honors  under  his  hand  and  the  places  in  his  power,  had 
•written  so !  But  that  cursed  Stubbs  had  blocked  his  play 
in  that  direction  by  asserting  that  it  was  hopeless,  though 
Audley  himself  began  at  this  late  hour  to  suspect  that  it 
had  not  been  hopeless!  That  it  had  been  far  from  hope- 
less! 

In  his  chagrin  my  lord  tore  the  Whip's  letter  across  and 
across,  and  then  prudently  gummed  it  together  again  and 
locked  it  away.  Certainly  the  odds  were  long  that  it  would 
never  be  honored;  on  the  one  side  stood  Peel  with  four- 
fifths  of  his  Cabinet  and  half  his  party,  with  all  the  Whigs, 
all  the  Eadicals,  all  the  League,  and  the  Big  Loaf :  on  the 
other  stood  the  landed  interest !  Just  the  landed  interest 
led  by  Lord  George  Bentinck,  handsome  and  debonair,  the 
darling  of  the  Turf,  the  owner  of  Crucifix;  but  hitherto  a 
silent  member,  and  one  at  whom,  as  a  leader,  the  world 
gaped.  Only,  behind  this  Joseph  there  lurked  a  Benjamin, 
one  whose  barbed  shafts  were  many  a  time  to  clear  the 
field.  The  lists  were  open,  the  lances  were  levelled,  the 
slogan  of  Free  Trade  was  met  by  the  cry  of  "  The  Land 
and  the  Constitution !  "  and  while  old  friendships  were  torn 
asunder  and  old  allies  cut  adrift,  town  and  country,  forge 
and  field,  met  in  a  furious  grapple  that  promised  to  be 
final. 

If,  amid  the  dust  of  such  a  conflict,  the  riot  at  Eiddsley 
obtained  a  passing  notice  in  London,  intense  it  may  be 
believed  was  the  excitement  which  it  caused  in  the  borough. 
Hatton  and  Banfield  and  their  men  went  about,  vowing  to 
take  vengeance  at  the  hustings.  The  mayor  went  about, 
swearing  in  constables.  The  farmers  and  their  allies  went 
about  grinning.  Fights  took  place  nightly  behind  the 


THE  RIDDSLEY  ELECTION  353 

Packhorse  and  the  Portcullis,  while  very  old  ladies,  peer- 
ing over  their  blinds,  talked  of  the  French  Revolution,  and 
very  young  ones  thought  that  the  Militia,  adequately  of- 
ficered, should  be  brought  into  the  town. 

The  spirit  of  which  Basset  had  given  proof  was  blazoned 
about;  and  he  gained  in  another  way.  He  was  one  of 
those  to  whom  a  spice  of  danger  is  a  fillip,  whom  a  little 
peril  shakes  out  of  themselves.  On  the  day  after  the  riot 
he  came  upon  a  score  of  people  collected  round  a  Cheap 
Jack  in  the  market.  The  man  presently  closed  his  patter 
and  his  stall,  and,  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  Basset 
took  his  place  and  made  the  crowd  a  speech  as  short  as  it 
was  simple.  He  told  them  that  in  his  opinion  it  was 
impossible  to  keep  food  out  of  the  country  by  a  tax  while 
Ireland  was  threatened  by  famine.  Secondly,  that  the  sac- 
rifice which  Peel  was  making  of  his  party,  his  reputation, 
and  his  consistency  was  warrant  that  in  his  view  the  change 
was  urgently  needed.  Thirdly,  he  asked  them  whether  the 
farmers  were  so  prosperous  and  the  laborers  so  comfortable 
that  change  must  be  for  the  worse.  But  here  he  came  on 
delicate  ground;  murmurs  arose  and  some  hisses,  and  he 
broke  off  good-humoredly,  thanked  the  crowd,  which  had 
grown  to  a  good  size,  and,  stepping  down  from  his  barrow, 
he  walked  away  amid  plaudits.  The  thing  was  reported, 
and  though  the  Tories  sneered  at  it  as  a  hole-and-corner 
meeting,  Farthingale  held  another  view.  He  told  Mr. 
Stubbs  that  it  was  a  neat  thing — very  well  done. 

Stubbs  grunted.    "  Will  it  change  a  vote?  "  he  growled. 

"  Change  a " 

"  Will  it  change  a  vote,  man?    You  heard  what  I  said." 

"  Lord,  no !  "  the  clerk  answered.  "  I  never  said  it 
would !  " 

"Then  why  trouble  about  it?"  Stubbs  retorted  fret- 
fully. "  Get  on  with  those  poll-cards!  I  don't  pay  you  a 
guinea  a  day  at  election  time  to  praise  monkey-tricks." 

For  Stubbs  was  not  happy.    He  knew,  indeed,  that  the 


354  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

breaking-up  of  the  open-air  meeting  had  been  fairly  suc- 
cessful. It  had  brought  back  two  votes  to  the  fold;  and 
he  calculated  that  the  seat  would  be  held.  But  by  a  ma- 
jority how  narrow,  how  fallen,  how  discreditable !  He 
blushed  to  think  of  it. 

And  other  things  made  him  unhappy.  Those  who  are 
politicians  by  trade  are  like  cardplayers,  who  play  for  the 
game's  sake ;  one  game  lost,  they  cut  and  deal  as  keenly  as 
before.  Behind  the  politicians,  however,  are  a  few  to  whom- 
the  stake  is  something;  and  of  these  was  Stubbs.  To  him,' 
as  we  know,  the  Corn-Tax  was  no  mere  toll,  but  the  protec- 
tion of  agriculture,  the  well-head  that  guarded  the  pure 
waters,  the  fence  that  saved  from  smoke  and  steam,  from 
slag-heap  and  brickfield,  the  smiling  face  of  England.  For 
him,  the  home  of  his  fathers,  the  land  of  field  and  stubble, 
of  plough  and  pinfold,  was  at  stake;  nay,  was  passing, 
wasted  by  men  who  thought  in  percentages  and  saw  no 
farther  than  the  columns  of  their  ledgers.  To  that  Eng- 
land of  his  memory — whether  it  had  ever  existed  in  fact  or 
no — a  hundred  associations  bound  the  lawyer ;  things  tender 
and  things  true;  quaint  memories  of  his  first  turkey's  nest, 
of  the  last  load  of  the  harvest,  of  the  loosened  plough 
horses  straying  to  the  water  at  the  close  of  day,  of  the  flat 
paintings  of  the  Durham  Ox  and  the  Coke  Earn  that 
adorned  the  farm  parlor. 

To  the  men  who  bade  him  look  up  and  see  that  in  his 
Elysium  the  farmer  struggled  and  the  laborer  starved,  his 
answer  was  short.  "  Better  ten  shillings  and  fresh  air,  than 
shoddy  dust  and  a  pound  a  week ! " 

In  the  country  as  a  whole — and  as  time  went  on — he 
despaired  of  success.  But  he  found  Lord  George  a  leader 
after  his  own  heart,  and  many  an  evening  he  pored  over 
the  long  paragraphs  of  his  long-winded  speeches.  "\Yhen 
he  heard  that  the  owner  of  Crucifix  had  dismissed  his 
trainers,  released  his  jockeys,  sold  his  stud,  and  turned  his 
back  on  the  turf,  he  could  have  wept.  Lord  George  and 


THE  RI  DOS  LEY  ELECTION  355 

Stubbs,  indeed,  were  the  true  country  party.  For  Lord 
George's  sake  Stubbs  was  prepared  to  taken  even  the  "  Jew 
boy  "  to  his  heart. 

As  to  the  potato  famine,  he  did  not  believe  a  word  of  it. 
He  called  the  Premier,  "  Potato  Peel ! " 

The  rains  of  February  are  apt  to  damp  enthusiasm,  but 
before  eleven  o'clock  on  the  nomination  day  Riddsley  was 
like  a  hive  of  bees  about  to  swarm.  The  throng  in  the 
streets  was  such  that  Mottisfont  could  hardly  pass  through 
it.  He  made  his  entry  into  the  borough  on  horseback  at 
the  head  of  a  hundred  mounted  farmers  wearing  blue 
sashes  and  favors.  Before  him  reeled  a  huge  banner  up- 
held by  eight  men  and  bearing  on  one  side  the  legend,  "  The 
Land  and  the  Constitution,"  on  the  other,  "  Mottisfont  the 
Farmers'  Friend  !  "  Behind  the  horsemen,  and  surrounded 
by  a  guard  of  laborers  in  smocked  frocks,  moved  a  plough 
mounted  on  a  wain  and  drawn  by  eight  farm  horses.  Flags 
with  "Speed  the  Plough,"  "England's  Share  is  Eng- 
land's Fare,"  and  "  Peace  and  Plenty,"  streamed  from  it. 
Three  bands  of  varying  degrees  of  badness  found  their 
places  where  they  could,  and  thumped  and  blared  against 
one  another  until  the  panes  rattled  in  the  deafened  streets. 
The  butchers,  with  marrow-bones  and  cleavers,  brought  up 
the  rear,  and  in  comparison  were  tuneful. 

Had  Basset  got  his  way,  he  would  have  dispensed  with 
pomp  and  walked  the  hundred  yards  which  separated  his 
quarters  at  the  Swan  from  the  hustings.  But  he  was  told 
that  this  would  never  do.  What  would  the  landlord  of  the 
Swan  say,  who  kept  postchaises?  And  the  postboys  who 
looked  for  a  golden  tip?  And  the  men  who  would  hand 
him  in  and  hand  him  out,  and  the  men  who  would  open 
the  door  and  shut  the  door,  and  the  men  who  would  raise 
the  steps  and  lower  the  steps,  who  would  all  look  for  the 
same  tip?  So,  perforce,  he  drove  in  state  to  the  Town  Hall 
— before  which  the  hustings  stood — in  a  barouche  and  four 
accompanied  by  Banfield  and  Hatton  and  his  agent.  The 


356  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

rest  of  his  Committee  followed  in  postchaises.  A  body- 
guard of  "  hands  "  escorted  them,  and  they,  too,  had  their 
bands — of  equal  badness — and  their  yellow  banners  with 
"  Down  with  the  Corn  Laws/'  "  Tote  for  Basset  the  Poor 
Man's  Friend,"  and  "Xo  Bread  Taxes."  The  great  and 
little  loaf  pranced  in  front  of  him  on  spears,  and  if  his 
procession  was  not  quite  so  fine  or  so  large  as  his  op- 
ponent's, it  must  be  admitted  that  the  blackguards  of  the 
town  showed  no  preference  and  that  he  could  boast  about 
an  equal  number  of  the  tagrag  and  bobtail. 

The  left  hand  of  the  hustings  was  allotted  to  him,  the 
right  hand  to  Mottisfont,  and  by  a  little  after  eleven  both 
parties  had  crammed  and  crushed, 

With  blustering,  bullying,  and  brow-beating, 
A  little  pummelling  and  maltreating, 
And  elbowing,  jostling  and  cajoling, 

into  their  places  in  front  of  the  platform,  the  bullies  and 
truncheon-men  being  posted  well  to  the  fore,  or  craftily 
ranged  where  the  frontiers  met.  The  bands  boomed  and 
blared,  the  men  huzzaed,  the  air  shook,  the  banners  waved, 
every  window  that  looked  out  upon  the  seething  mob  was 
white  with  faces,  every  'vantage-point  was  occupied.  It 
was  such  a  day  and  such  a  contest  as  Riddsley  had  never 
seen.  The  eyes  of  the  country,  it  was  felt,  were  upon  it! 
Fights  took  place  every  five  minutes,  oaths  and  bets  flew 
like  hail  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  coarse  wit  met 
coarser  nicknames,  and  now  and  again  shrieks  varied  the 
hubbub  as  the  huge  press  of  people,  gathered  from 
miles  round,  swayed  under  the  impact  of  some  vicious 
rush. 

"  Hurrah !  Hurrah !  Mottisfont  for  ever !  Basset ! 
Basset  and  the  Big  Loaf!  Basset!  Basset!  Hurrah! 
Mottisfont!  Hurrah!" 

Then,  in  a  short-lived  silence,  "  Ten  to  one  on  Mottis- 


THE  RIDDSLEY  ELECTION  357 

font !  Three  cheers  for  the  Duke ! "  and  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

Or  a  hundred  voices  would  raise 

John  Barley-corn,  my  Joe,  John! 
When  we  were  first  acquaint ! 

but  never  got  beyond  the  first  two  lines,  either  because  they 
were  howled  down  or  they  knew  no  more  of  the  words. 
The  Feelites  answered  with  their  mournful, 

Child,  is  thy  father  dead? 

Father  is  gone! 
Why  did  they  tax  his  bread? 

God's  will  be  done! 

or  with  the  quicker, 

Oh,  landlords'  devil  take 

Thy  own  elect  I  pray! 
Who  taxed  our  cake,  and  took  our  cake, 

And  threw  our  cake  away! 

On  this  would  ensue  a  volley  of  personalities.  "  What 
would  you  be  without  your  starch,  Hay  ward  ?  "  "  How's 
your  dad,  Farthingale  ?  "  "  Who  whopped  his  wife  last 
Saturday  ?  »  "  Hurrah !  Hurrah !  Who  said  Potatoes  ?  " 

For  nearly  an  hour  this  went  on,  the  blare  of  the  bands, 
the  uproar,  the  cheering,  the  abuse  never  ceasing.  Then 
the  town-crier  appeared  upon  the  vacant  hustings.  He 
rang  his  bell  for  silence  and  for  a  moment  obtained  it. 
On  his  heels  entered,  first  the  mayor  and  his  assistants, 
then  the  candidates,  the  proposers,  the  seconders.  Each,  as 
he  made  his  appearance,  was  greeted  with  a  storm  of 
groans,  cheers,  and  cat-calls.  Each  put  on  to  meet  it 
such  a  show  of  ease  as  he  could,  some  smiling,  some  affect- 
ing ignorance.  The  candidates  and  their  supporters  filed  to 


358  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

either  side,  while  the  flustered  mayor  took  his  stand  in  the 
middle  with  the  town  clerk  at  his  elbow. 

Basset,  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  troubles,  sought  comfort 
in  looking  beyond  the  present  moment.  He  feared  that 
he  was  not  likely  to  win,  but  he  had  done  his  duty,  he  had 
made  his  effort,  and  soon  he  would  be  free  to  repeat  that 
effort  on  a  smaller  stage.  Soon,  these  days,  that  in  horror 
rivalled  the  middle  passage  of  the  slave  trade,  would  be 
over,  and  if  he  were  not  elected  he  would  be  free  to  retire 
to  Blore,  and  to  spend  days,  lonely  and  sad  indeed,  but 
clean,  in  the  improvement  of  his  acres  and  his  people.  His 
eyes  dwelt  upon  the  sea  of  faces,  and  from  time  to  time  he 
smiled;  but  his  mind  was  far  away.  He  thought  with 
horror  of  elections,  and  with  loathing  of  the  sordid  round 
of  flattery  and  handshaking,  of  bribery  and  intimidation 
from  which  he  emerged.  Thank  God,  the  morrow  would 
see  the  end !  He  would  have  done  his  best,  and  played  his 
part.  And  it  would  be  over. 

What  the  mayor  said  and  what  the  town  clerk  said  is  of 
no  importance,  for  no  one  heard  them.  The  proposers,  the 
seconders,  the  candidates,  all  spoke  in  dumb  show.  Basset 
dwelt  briefly  on  the  crisis  in  Ireland,  the  integrity  of  Peel, 
and  the  doubtful  wisdom  of  taxing  that  which,  to  the 
poorest,  was  a  necessity  of  life.  If  bread  were  cheaper  all 
would  have  more  to  spend  on  other  things  and  the  farmer 
would  have  a  wider  market  for  his  meat,  his  wool,  and  his 
cheese.  It  read  well  in  the  local  paper. 

But  one  man  was  heard.  This  was  a  man  who  was  not 
expected  to  speak,  whose  creed  it  had  ever  been  that 
speeches  were  useless,  and  whom  tradition  almost  forbade 
to  speak,  for  he  was  an  agent.  At  the  last  moment,  when 
a  seconder  for  a  formal  motion  was  needed,  he  thrust  him- 
self forward  to  the  astonishment  of  all.  The  same  aston- 
ishment stilled  the  mob  as  they  gazed  on  the  well-known 
figure.  For  a  minute  or  two,  curiosity  and  the  purpose  in 
the  man's  face,  held  even  his  opponents  silent. 


THE  RI  DOS  LEY  ELECTION  359 

The  man  was  Stubbs;  and  from  the  moment  he  showed 
himself  it  was  plain  that  he  was  acting  under  the  stress  of 
great  emotion.  The  very  fuglemen  forgot  to  interrupt  him. 
They  scented  something  out  of  the  common. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  on  the  hustings  in  my  life,"  he 
said.  "  I  speak  now  to  warn  you.  I  believe  that  you,  the 
electors  of  Riddsley,  are  going  to  sell  the  birthright  of 
health  which  you  have  received;  and  the  heritage  of  free- 
dom which  this  land  has  enjoyed  for  generations  and  on 
which  the  power  of  Bonaparte  broke  as  on  a  rock.  You 
think  you  are  going  to  have  cheap  bread,  and,  maybe,  you 
are!  But  at  what  a  cost!  Cheap  bread  is  foreign  bread. 
To  you,  the  laborers,  I  say  that  foreign  bread  means  that 
the  fields  you  till  will  be  laid  to  grass  and  you  will  go  to 
work  in  Dudley  and  Walsall  and  Bury  and  Bolton,  in 
mills  and  pits  and  smoke  and  dust!  And  your  children 
will  be  dwarfed  and  wizened  and  puny !  Foreign  bread 
means  that.  And  it  means  that  the  day  will  come  when 
war  will  cut  off  your  bread  and  you  will  starve;  or  the 
will  of  the  foreigner  who  feeds  you  will  cut  it  off — for  he 
will  be  your  master.  I  say,  grow  your  own  bread  and  eat 
your  own  bread,  and  you  will  be  free  men.  Eat  foreign 
bread  and  in  time  you  will  be  slaves!  No  land  that  is 
fed  by  another  land " 

His  last  words  were  lost.  Signals  from  furious  prin- 
cipals roused  the  fuglemen,  and  he  was  howled  down,  and 
stood  back  ashamed  of  the  impulse  which  had  moved  him 
and  little  less  astonished  than  those  about  him.  Young 
Mottisfont  clapped  him  on  the  back  and  affected  to  make 
much  of  him.  But  even  he  hardly  knew  how  to  take  it 
Some  said  that  Stubbs  had  had  tears  in  his  eyes,  while 
the  opposing  agent  whispered  to  his  neighbor  that  the 
lawyer  was  breaking  and  would  never  handle  another  con- 
test. Sober  men  shook  their  heads;  agents  should  hardly 
be  seen,  much  less  heard ! 

But  Stubbs's  words  were  marked,  and  when  the  bad 


360  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

times  came  thirty  3rears  later,  aged  farmers  recalled  them 
and  thought  over  them.  Nor  were  they  without  fruit  at  the 
time.  For  next  morning  when  the  poll  opened,  Basset's 
people  suffered  a  shock.  Two  men  on  whom  he  had 
counted  appeared  and  voted  short  and  sharp  for  Mottisfont. 
Basset's  agent  asked  them  pleasantly  if  they  were  not  mak- 
ing a  mistake;  and  then  less  pleasantly  had  the  Bribery 
Oath  administered  to  them.  But  they  stuck  to  their  guns, 
the  votes  were  recorded,  and  Mottisfont  shook  hands  with 
them.  Later  in  the  day  when  the  two  were  fuddled  they 
denied  that  they  had  voted  for  Mottisfont.  They  had 
voted  for  old  Stubbs — and  they  would  do  it  again  and  fight 
any  man  who  said  to  the  contrary.  Their  desire  in  this 
direction  was  quickly  met,  and  both,  to  the  indignation  of 
the  Tories,  were  fined  five  shillings  at  the  next  petty 
sessions. 

Whether  this  start  gave  the  Protectionists  a  fillip  or  no, 
they  were  in  great  spirits,  and  Mottisfont  was  up  and  down 
shaking  hands  all  the  morning.  At  noon  the  figures  as 
exhibited  outside  the  Mottisfont  Committee-room — amid 
tremendous  cheering — were : 

Mottisfont       ...       41 
Basset    ....       30 

though  Basset  outside  his  Committee-room  claimed  one 
more.  Soon  after  twelve  Hatton  brought  up  the  two 
Boshams  in  his  carriage,  and  Ben,  recovered  from  his 
fright,  flung  his  hat  before  him  into  the  booth,  danced  a 
war-dance  on  the  steps,  and  gave  three  cheers  for  Basset 
as  he  came  down.  Banfield  brought  up  three  more  voters 
in  his  carriage  and  thence  onward  until  one  o'clock  the 
polling  was  rapid.  The  one  o'clock  board  showed: 

Mottisfont       ...       60 
Basset    ...  (.,        t.      57 


THE  RIDDSLEY  ELECTION  361 

with  seventy  votes  to  poll.  The  Mottisfont  party  began  to 
look  almost  as  blue  as  their  favors,  but  Stubbs,  returned  to 
his  senses,  continued  to  read  his  newspaper  in  a  closet  be- 
hind the  Committee-room,  as  if  there  were  no  contest 
within  a  hundred  miles  of  Riddsley. 

During  the  next  three  hours  little  was  done.  The  poll- 
clerks  sent  out  for  pots  of  beer,  the  watchers  drowsed,  the 
candidates  were  invisible — "ome  said  that  they  had  gone  to 
dine  with  the  mayor.  The  bludgeon-men  and  blackguards 
went  home  to  sleep  off  their  morning's  drink,  and  to  recruit 
themselves  for  the  orgy  of  the  Chairing.  The  crowd  before 
the  polling  booth  shrank  to  a  knot  of  loafing  lads  and  a 
stray  dog.  At  four  Mottisfont  still  held  the  lead  with 
64  to  61. 

But  as  the  clock  struck  four  the  town  awoke.  Word  went 
round  that  a  message  from  Sir  Eobert  Peel  would  be  read 
outside  Basset's  Committee-room.  Hearers  were  whipped 
up,  and  the  message,  having  been  read  with  much  parade, 
was  posted  up  through  the  town  and  as  promptly  pulled 
down.  Animated  by  the  message,  and  making  as  mucii  of 
it  as  if  it  had  not  been  held  back  for  the  purpose,  the 
Peelites  polled  five-and-twenty  votes  in  rapid  succession, 
and  at  half-past  four  issued  a  huge  placard  with : 

Basset    ....  87 

Mottisfont       ...  83 

Vote  for  Basset  and  the  Big  Loaf! 

Basset  wins ! 

Great  was  the  enthusiasm,  loud  the  cheering,  vast  the  stir 
outside  their  Committee-room.  The  Big  and  the  Little 
Loaf  waltzed  out  on  their  poles.  The  placard,  mounted  as 
a  banner,  was  entrusted  to  the  two  Boshams.  The  band 
was  ready,  a  dozen  flares  were  ready,  the  Committee  were 
ready,  all  was  ready  for  a  last  rally  which  might  decide 
the  one  or  two  doubtful  voters.  All  was  ready,  but  where 
was  Mr.  Basset?  .Where  was  the  candidate? 


362  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

He  could  not  be  found,  and  great  was  the  hubbub,  vast 
the  running  to  and  fro.  "  The  Candidate  ?  Where's  the 
Candidate  ?  "  One  ran  to  the  Swan,  another  to  the  polling- 
booth,  a  third  to  his  agent's  office.  He  could  not  be  found. 
All  that  was  known  of  him  or  could  be  learned  was  that 
a  tall  man,  who  looked  like  an  undertaker,  had  stopped  him 
near  the  polling-booth  and  had  kept  him  in  talk  for  some 
minutes.  From  that  time  he  had  been  seen  by  no  one. 

Foul  play  was  talked  of,  and  the  search  went  on,  but 
meantime  the  procession — the  poll  closed  at  half-past  six — 
must  start  if  it  was  to  do  any  good.  It  did  so,  and  with 
its  flares,  its  swaying  placard,  its  running  riff-raff,  now 
luridly  thrown  up  by  the  lights,  now  lost  in  shadow,  formed 
the  most  picturesque  scene  that  the  election  had  witnessed. 
The  absence  of  the  candidate  was  a  drawback,  and  some 
shook  their  heads  over  it.  But  the  more  knowing  put  their 
tongues  in  their  cheeks,  aware  that  whether  he  were  there 
or  not,  and  whether  they  marched  or  stayed  at  home, 
neither  side  would  be  a  vote  the  better ! 

At  half-past  five  the  figures  were, 

Basset    ....       87 
Mottisfont       ...       86 

There  were  still  fourteen  votes  to  poll,  and  on  the  face  of 
things  victory  hung  in  the  balance. 

But  at  that  hour  Stubbs  moved.  He  laid  down  his  news- 
paper, gave  Farthingale  an  order,  took  up  a  slip  of  paper 
and  his  hat,  and  went  by  way  of  the  darkest  street  to  The 
Butterflies.  He  walked  thoughtfully,  with  his  chin  on  his 
breast,  as  if  he  had  no  great  appetite  for  the  interview  be- 
fore him.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  house  the  poll 
stood  at 

Mottisfont       ...       96 
Basset    ....       87 

And  long  and  loud  was  the  cheering,  wild  the  triumph  of 


THE  R1DDSLEY  ELECTION  363 

the  landed  interest.  The  town  was  fuller  than  ever,  for 
during  the  last  hour  the  farmers  and  their  men  had  trooped 
in,  Brown  Heath  had  sent  its  colliers,  and  a  crowd  filling 
every  yard  of  space  within  eye-shot  of  the  polling-booth 
greeted  the  news.  To  hell  with  Peel !  Down  with  Cobden ! 
Away  with  the  League !  Hurrah !  Hurrah !  Stubbs,  had 
he  been  there,  would  have  been  carried  shoulder-high.  Old 
Hayward  was  lifted  and  carried,  old  Musters  of  the  Audley 
Arms,  one  or  two  of  the  Committee.  It  was  known  that 
four  votes  only  remained  unpolled,  so  that  Mottisfont's 
victory  was  secure. 

At  The  Butterflies,  whither  the  cheering  of  the  crowd 
came  in  gusts  that  rose  and  fell  by  turns,  Stubbs  nodded 
to  the  maid  and  went  up  the  stairs  unannounced.  Audley 
was  writing  at  a  side-table  facing  the  room.  He  looked 
up  eagerly.  "  Well  ? "  he  said,  putting  down  his  quill. 
"Is  it  over?" 

Stubbs  laid  the  slip  of  paper  before  him.  "  It's  not  over, 
my  lord,"  he  answered  soberly.  "  But  that  is  the  result. 
I  am  sorry  that  it  is  no  better/' 

Audley  looked  at  the  paper.  "  Nine ! "  he  exclaimed. 
He  looked  at  Stubbs,  he  looked  again  at  the  paper. 
"  Nine?  Good  G — d,  man,  you  don't  mean  it?  You  can't 
mean  it!  You  don't  mean  that  that  is  the  best  we  could 
do?" 

"  We  hold  the  seat,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  said. 

"  Hold  the  seat ! "  Audley  replied,  staring  at  him  with 
furious  eyes.  "  Hold  the  seat?  But  I  thought  that  it  was 
a  safe  seat?  I  thought  that  it  was  a  seat  that  couldn't  be 
lost!  When  five,  only  five,  votes  would  have  cast  it  the 
other  way !  Why,  man,  you  cannot  have  known  anything 
about  it!  No  more  about  it  than  the  first  man  in  the 
street ! " 

"  My  lord " 

"  Not  a  jot  more ! "  Audley  repeated.  He  had  been  pre- 
pared for  something  like  this,  but  the  certainty  that  if  he 


364  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

had  cast  his  weight  on  the  other  side,  the  side  that  had 
sinecures  and  places  and  pensions,  he  would  have  turned 
the  scale — this  was  too  much  for  his  temper.  "  Nine !  "  he 
rapped  out  with  another  oath.  "  I  can  only  think  that  the 
Election  has  been  mismanaged!  Grievously,  grievously 
mismanaged,  Mr.  Stubbs !  " 

"  If  your  lordship  thinks  so " 

"I  do !  "  Audley  retorted,  his  certainty  that  the  man 
before  him  had  thwarted  his  plans,  carrying  him  farther 
than  he  intended.  "I  do !  Nine !  Good  G — d,  man ! 

When  you  assured  me " 

,  "  Whatever  I  assured  your  lordship,"  Stubbs  said  firmly, 
"  I  believed.  And — no,  my  lord,  you  must  allow  me  to 
speak  now — what  I  promised  would  have  been  borne  out 
— fully  borne  out  by  the  result  in  normal  times.  But  I 
did  not  allow  enough  for  the  split  in  the  party,  nor  for  the 
wave  of  madness " 

"As  you  think  it!" 

"  And  surely  as  your  lordship  also  thinks  it !  "  Stubbs 
rejoined  smartly,  "  that  has  swept  over  the  country !  In 
these  circumstances  it  is  something  to  hold  the  seat,  which 
a  return  to  sanity  will  certainly  assure  to  us  at  the  next 
election." 

"  The  next  election !  "  Audley  muttered  scornfully.  For 
the  moment  he  was  too  angry  to  play  a  part  or  to  drape  his 
feelings. 

"  But  if  your  lordship  is  dissatisfied " 

"Dissatisfied?    I  am  d — nably  dissatisfied." 

"  Then  your  lordship  has  the  power,"  Stubbs  said  slowly, 
"  to  dispense  with  my  services." 

"  I  know  that,  sir." 

"  And  if  you  do  not  think  fit  to  take  that  step,  my 
lord " 

"  I  shall  consider  it !  " 

Another  word  or  two  and  the  deed  had  been  done,  for 


THE  RIDDSLEY  ELECTION  365 

both  men  were  too  angry  to  fence.  But  before  that  last 
word  was  spoken  Audley's  man  entered.  He  handed  a  card 
to  his  master  and  waited. 

Audley  looked  at  the  card  longer  than  was  necessary  and 
under  cover  of  the  pause  regained  control  of  himself. 
"  Who  brought  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  messenger  from  the  Swan,  my  lord." 

"  Tell  him "  He  broke  off.  Holding  out  the  card 

for  Stubbs  to  take,  "  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Stubbs  returned  the  card.  "No,  my  lord,"  he  said 
coldly.  "  I  know  nothing." 

"Business  of  great  importance  to  me?  D — n  his  im- 
pudence, what  business  important  to  me  can  he  have?" 
Audley  muttered.  Then,  "  My  compliments  to  Mr.  Basset 
and  I  am  leaving  in  the  morning,  but  I  shall  be  at  home 
this  evening  at  nine." 

The  servant  retired.  Audley  looked  askance  at  his 
agent.  "  You'd  better  be  here,"  he  muttered  ungraciously. 
"  We  can  settle  what  we  were  talking  about  later." 

"Very  good,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  answered.  And  nothing 
more  being  said,  he  took  himself  off. 

He  was  not  sorry  that  they  had  been  interrupted.  Much 
of  his  income  and  more  of  his  importance  sprang  from 
the  Audley  agency,  but  rather  than  be  treated  as  if  he 
were  a  servant,  he  would  surrender  both — in  his  way  he 
was  a  proud  man.  Still  he  did  not  want  to  give  up  either; 
and  if  time  were  given  he  thought  that  his  lordship  would 
think  better  of  the  matter. 

As  he  returned  to  his  office,  choosing  the  quiet  streets  by 
which  he  had  come,  he  had  a  glimpse,  through  an  opening, 
of  the  distant  Market-place.  A  sound  of  cheering,  a  glare 
of  smoky  light,  a  medley  of  leaping,  running  forms,  a  some- 
thing uplifted  above  the  crowd,  moved  across  his  line  of 
vision.  Almost  as  quickly  it  vanished,'  leaving  only  the 


366  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

reflection  of  retreating  torches.  "  Hurrah !  Hurrah  for 
Mottisfont !  Hurrah !  "  Still  the  cheering  came  faintly  to 
his  ears. 

He  sighed.  Riddsley  had  remained  faithful — hy  nine! 
But  he  did  not  deceive  himself.  It  was  the  writing  on  the 
wall.  The  Corn  Laws  were  doomed,  and  with  them  much 
that  he  had  loved,  much  that  he  cherished,  much  in  which 
he  believed. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A   TURN   OF  THE  WHEEL 

AUDLEY  was  suspicious  and  ill  at  ease.  Standing  on  the 
hearth-rug  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  he  fixed  the  visitor 
with  his  eyes,  and  with  secret  anxiety  asked  himself  what 
he  wanted.  The  possibility  that  Basset  came  to  champion 
Mary  had  crossed  his  mind  more  than  once;  if  that  were 
so  he  would  soon  dispose  of  him !  In  the  meantime  he  took 
civility  for  his  cue,  exchanged  an  easy  word  or  two  about 
the  poll  and  the  election,  and  between  times  nodded  to 
Stubbs  to  be  seated.  Through  all,  his  eyes  were  watchful 
and  he  missed  nothing. 

"  I  asked  Mr.  Stubbs  to  be  here/'  he  said  when  a  minute 
or  two  had  been  spent  in  this  by-play,  "  as  you  spoke  of 
business.  You  don't  object  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  Basset  replied.  His  face  was  grave.  "  I 
should  tell  you  at  once,  Audley,"  he  added,  "  that  my  mis- 
sion is  not  a  pleasant  one." 

The  other  raised  his  eyebrows.  "You  are  sure  that  it 
concerns  me?" 

"It  certainly  concerns  you.  Though,  as  things  stand, 
not  very  materially.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  matter  myself 
until  three  o'clock  to-day,  and  at  first  I  doubted  if  it  was 
my  duty  to  communicate  it.  But  the  facts  are  known  to  a 
third  person,  they  may  be  used  to  annoy  you  in  the  future, 
and  though  the  task  is  unpleasant,  I  decided  that  I  had  no 
option." 

Audley  set  his  broad  shoulders  against  the  mantel-shelf. 
"  But  if  the  facts  don't  affect  me?  "  he  said. 

367 


368  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  In  a  way  they  do.  Not  as  they  might  under  other  cir- 
cumstances. That  is  all." 

"  And  yet  you  are  making  our  hair  stand  on  end !  I 
confess  you  puzzle  me.  Well,  let  us  have  it.  What  is  it 
aU  about?" 

"  A  little  time  ago  you  recovered,  if  you  remember,  your 
Family  Bible." 

"Well?    What  of  that?" 

"  I  have  just  learned  that  the  man  did  not  hand  over  all 
that  he  had.  He  kept  back — it  now  appears — certain 
papers." 

"  Ah !  "  Audley's  voice  was  stern.  "  Well,  he  has  had 
his  chance.  This  time,  I  can  promise  him  a  warrant  will 
follow." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  hear  me  out  first  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  sharp  reply.  Audley's  temper  was  get- 
ting the  better  of  him.  "  Last  time,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
compounded  with  him;  your  motive  an  excellent  one  I 
don't  doubt.  But  if  he  now  thinks  to  get  more  money  from 
me — and  for  other  papers — I  can  promise  him  that  he  will 
see  the  inside  of  Stafford  gaol.  Besides,  my  good  friend, 
you  gave  us  to  understand  that  he  had  surrendered  all  he 
had." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did,  and  I  fear  I  was  wrong.  Why  he 
deceived  me,  and  has  now  turned  about,  I  know  no  more 
than  you  do !  " 

"  I  think  I  can  enlighten  you,"  the  other  answered — his 
fears  as  well  as  his  temper  were  aroused.  "  The  rogue  is 
shallow.  He  thinks  to  be  paid  twice.  Once  by  you  and 
once  by  me.  But  you  can  tell  him  that  this  time  he  will  be 
paid  in  other  coin." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  there  is  more  in  it  than  that,"  Basset 
said.  "  The  fact  is  the  papers  he  now  produces,  Audley,  are 
of  another  character." 

"  Oh !  The  wind  blows  in  that  quarter,  does  it  ?  "  my 
lord  replied.  "  You  don't  mean  that  you've  come  here — 


A  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  369 

why,  d — n  it,  man,"  with  sudden  passion,  "  either  you  are 
very  simple,  or  you  are  art  and  part " 

"  Steady,  steady,  my  lord,"  Stubbs  said,  interposing  dis- 
creetly. Hitherto  he  had  not  spoken.  "  There's  no  need 
to  quarrel !  I  am  sure  that  Mr.  Basset's  intentions  are 
friendly.  It  will  be  better  if  he  just  tells  us  what  these 
documents  are  which  are  now  put  forward.  We  shall  then 
be  able  to  judge  where  we  stand." 

"  Go  ahead,"  Audley  said,  averting  his  face  and  sulkily 
relapsing  against  the  mantel-shelf.  "Put  your  questions! 
And,  for  God's  sake,  let's  get  to  the  point ! " 

"  The  paper  that  is  pertinent  is  a  deed,"  Basset  ex- 
plained. "  I  have  the  heads  of  it  here.  A  deed  made  be- 
tween Peter  Paravicini  Audley,  your  ancestor,  the  Audley 
the  date  of  whose  marriage  has  been  always  in  issue — 
between  him  on  the  one  side,  and  his  father  and  two 
younger  brothers  on  the  other." 

"What  is  the  date?"  Stubbs  asked. 

"  Seventeen  hundred  and  four." 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Basset."  Stubbs's  tone  was  now  as 
even  as  he  could  make  it,  but  an  acute  listener 
would  have  detected  a  change  in  it.  "  Proceed,  if  you 
please." 

Before  Basset  could  comply,  my  lord  broke  in.  "  What's 
the  use  of  this  ?  Why  the  d — 1  are  we  going  into  it  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  If  this  man  is  out  for  plunder  I  will  make  him 
smart  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Audley!  And  any  one  who 
supports  him.  In  the  meantime  I  want  to  hear  no  more 
of  it!" 

Basset  moved  in  his  chair  as  if  he  would  rise.  Stubbs 
intervened. 

"  That  is  one  way  of  looking  at  it,  my  lord,"  he  said 
temperately.  "And  I'm  not  saying  that  it  is  the  wrong 
way.  But  I  think  we  had  better  hear  what  Mr.  Basset  has 
to  say.  He  is  probably  deceived " 

"He  has  let  himself  be  used  as  a  catspaw!"  Audley 


370  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

cried.  His  face  was  flushed  and  there  was  an  ugly  look  in 
his  eyes. 

"  But  he  means  us  well,  I  am  sure,"  the  lawyer  inter- 
posed. "  At  present  I  don't  see  " — he  turned  and  carefully 
snuffed  one  of  the  candles — "  I  don't  see " 

"  I  think  you  do !  "  Basset  answered.  He  had  had  a  long 
day  and  he  had  come  on  an  unpleasant  business.  His  own 
temper  was  not  too  good.  "  You  see  this,  at  any  ra£e,  Mr. 
Stubbs,  that  such  a  deed  may  be  of  vital  import  to  your 
client." 

"  To  me  ?  "  Audley  exclaimed.  Was  it  possible  that  the 
thing  he  had  so  long  feared — and  had  ceased  to  fear — was 
going  to  befall  him?  Was  it  possible  that  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  when  he  had  burnt  his  boats,  when  he  had  thought 
all  danger  at  an  end — no,  it  was  impossible !  "  To  me  ?  " 
he  repeated  passionately. 

"  Yes,"  Basset  replied.  "  Or,  rather,  it  would  be  of  vital 
import  to  you  in  other  circumstances.'* 

"  In  what  other  circumstances  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  If  you  were  not  about  to  marry  the  only  person  who, 
with  you,  is  interested." 

Audley  cut  short,  by  a  tremendous  effort,  the  execration 
that  burst  from  his  lips.  His  face,  always  too  fleshy  for 
his  years,  swelled  till  it  was  purple.  Then,  and  as  quickly, 
the  blood  ebbed,  leaving  it  gray  and  flabby.  He  would  have 
given  much,  very  much  at  this  moment  to  be  able  to  laugh 
or  to  utter  a  careless  word.  But  he  could  do  neither.  The 
blow  had  been  too  sudden,  too  heavy,  too  overwhelming. 
Only  in  his  nightmares  had  he  seen  what  he  saw  now ! 

Meanwhile  Stubbs,  startled  by  the  half-uttered  oath  and 
a  little  out  of  his  depth — for  he  had  heard  nothing  of  the 
engagement — intervened.  "  I  think,  my  lord,"  he  said, 
"  you  had  better  leave  this  to  me.  I  think  you  had,  indeed. 
We  are  quite  in  the  dark  and  we  are  not  getting  forward. 
Let  us  have  the  facts,  Mr.  Basset.  What  is  the  gist  of  this 
deed?  Or,  first,  have  you  seen  it? " 


A  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  371 

"I  have." 

"And  read  it?" 

"  I  have." 

"It  appears  to  you — I  only  say  it  appears — to  be 
genuine  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  genuine,"  Basset  replied. 
"It  bears  the  marks  of  age,  and  it  was  found  in  the  chest 
with  the  old  Bible.  If  the  book  is  genuine " 

The  lawyer  raised  his  hand.  "  Too  fast,"  he  said.  "  You 
say  it  was  found!  You  mean  that  this  man  says  it  was 
found?" 

"  Yes." 

"Precisely.  But  there  is  a  difference.  Still,  we  have 
cleared  the  ground.  Now,  what  does  this  deed  purport  to 
be?" 

Basset  produced  a  slip  of  paper.  "  An  agreement,"  he 
read  from  it,  "  between  Peter  Paravicini  Audley  and  his 
father  and  his  two  younger  brothers.  After  admitting  that 
the  entry  of  the  marriage  in  the  register  is  misleading  and 
that  no  marriage  took  place  until  after  the  birth  of  his  son, 
Peter  Paravicini  undertakes  that,  in  consideration  of  his 
father  and  his  brothers  taking  no  action  and  making  no 
attack  upon  his  wife's  reputation,  she  being  their  cousin, 
he  will  not  set  up  for  the  said  son,  or  the  issue  of  the  said 
eon,  any  claim  to  the  title  or  estates." 

Audley  listened  to  the  description,  so  clear  and  so  precise, 
and  he  recognized  that  it  tallied  with  the  deed  which  tradi- 
tion had  always  held  to  exist  but  of  which  John  Audley  had 
been  able  to  give  no  proof.  He  heard,  he  understood;  yet 
while  he  listened  and  understood,  his  mind  was  working  to 
another  end,  and  viewing  with  passion  the  tragedy  which 
fate  had  prepared  for  him.  Too  late!  Too  late!  Had 
this  become  known  a  week,  only  a  week,  earlier,  how  lightly 
had  the  blow  fallen!  How  impotently!  But  he  had  cut 
the  rope,  he  had  severed  the  strands  once  carefully  twisted, 
that  bound  him  to  safety !  And  then  the  irony,  the  bitter- 


372  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

ness,  the  cruelty  of  those  words  of  Basset's,  "  in  other  cir- 
cumstances !  "  They  bit  into  his  mind. 

Still  he  suffered  in  silence,  and  only  his  stillness  and  his 
unhealthy  color  betrayed  the  despair  that  gripped  and  be- 
numbed his  soul.  Stubbs  did  not  look  at  him ;  perhaps  he 
was  careful  not  to  look  at  him.  The  lawyer  sat  thinking 
and  drumming  gently  with  his  fingers  on  the  table.  "  Just 
so,  just  so/'  he  said  presently.  "On  the  face  of  it,  the 
document  of  which  Mr.  John  Audley  tried  to  give  second- 
ary evidence,  and  which  a  person  fraudulently  inclined 
would  of  course  concoct.  That  touch  of  the  cousin  well 
brought  in ! " 

"  But  the  lady  was  his  cousin,"  Basset  said. 

"  All  the  world  knows  it,"  the  lawyer  retorted  coolly, 
"  and  use  has  been  made  of  the  knowledge.  But,  of  course, 
there  are  a  hundred  things  to  be  proved  before  any  weight 
can  be  given  to  this  document ;  its  origin,  the  custody  from 
which  it  comes,  the  signatures,  the  witnesses.  Its  produc- 
tion by  a  man  who  has  once  endeavored  to  blackmail  is 
alone  suspicious.  And  the  deed  itself  is  at  variance  with 
the  evidence  of  the  Bible." 

"But  that  variance  bears  out  the  deed,  which  is  to 
secure  the  younger  sons'  rights  while  covering  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  lady." 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head.  "Very  clever,"  he  said. 
"  But,  frankly,  the  matter  has  an  ugly  look,  Mr.  Basset." 

"  Lord  Audley  says  nothing,"  Basset  replied,  nettled  by 
the  lawyer's  phrase. 

"  And  will  say  nothing,"  Stubbs  rejoined  genially,  "  if  he 
is  advised  by  me.  In  the  circumstances,  as  I  understand 
them,  he  is  not  affected  as  he  might  be,  but  this  is  still  a 
serious  matter.  We  are  not  quarrelling  with  you  for  com- 
ing to  us,  Mr.  Basset.  On  the  contrary.  But  I  would  like 
to  know  why  the  man  came  to  you." 

"  The  answer  is  simple,"  Basset  explained.  "  I  am  Mr. 
Audley's  executor.  On  his  account,  I  am  obliged  to  be 


A  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL  373 

interested.  The  moment  I  learned  this  I  saw  that,  be  it 
true  or  false,  I  must  disclose  it  to  Miss  Audley.  But  I 
thought  it  fair  to  open  it  to  Lord  Audley  first  that  he  might 
tell  the  young  lady  himself,  if  he  preferred  to  do  so." 

Stubbs  nodded.  "Very  proper/'  he  replied.  "And 
where,  in  the  meantime,  is  this — precious  document  ?  " 

"  I  lodged  it  with  Mr.  Audley's  bankers  this  after- 
noon." 

Stubbs  nodded  again.  "Also  very  proper,"  he  said. 
"Just  so." 

Basset  rose.  "I've  told  you  what  I  know.  If  there  is 
nothing  more  ?  "  he  said.  He  looked  at  Audley,  who  had 
turned  his  back  on  them  and,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  one  foot  on  the  fender,  was  gazing  into  the  fire. 

"  I  think  that's  all,"  Stubbs  hastened  to  say.  "  I  am  sure 
that  his  lordship  is  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Basset,  though  it 
is  a  hundred  to  one  that  there  is  nothing  in  this." 

At  that,  however,  Audley  turned  about.  He  had  pulled 
himself  together,  and  his  manner  was  excellent.  "  I  would 
like  to  say  that  for  myself,"  he  said  frankly,  "  I  owe  you 
many  thanks  for  the  straightforward  course  you  have  taken, 
Basset.  You  must  pardon  my  momentary  annoyance. 
Perhaps  you  will  kindly  keep  this  business  to  yourself  for 
— shall  we  say — three  days?  I  will  speak  myself  to  my 
cousin,  but  I  should  like  to  make  one  or  two  inquiries 
first." 

Basset  agreed  willingly.  He  hated  the  whole  thing  and 
his  part  in  it.  It  forced  him  to  champion,  or  to  seem  to 
champion,  Mary  against  her  betrothed;  and  so  set  him  in 
that  kind  of  opposition  to  his  rival  which  he  loathed.  It 
was  only  after  some  hesitation  that  he  had  determined  to 
see  Audley,  and  now  that  he  had  seen  him,  the  sooner  he 
was  clear  of  the  matter  the  happier  he  would  be.  So, 
"Certainly,"  he  repeated,  thinking  that  the  other  was 
taking  it  very  well.  "  And  now,  as  I  have  had  a  hard  day, 
I  will  say  good-night." 


374  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

"  Good-night,  and  believe  me/'  my  lord  added  warmly, 
"  we  recognize  the  friendliness  of  your  action." 

Outside,  in  the  darkness  of  the  road,  Basset  drew  a 
breath  of  relief.  He  had  had  a  hard  day  and  he  was 
utterly  weary.  But  he  had  come  now,  thank  God,  to  an 
end  of  many  things ;  of  the  canvass  he  had  detested  and  the 
contest  in  which  he  had  been  beaten;  of  his  relations  with 
Mary,  whom  he  had  lost;  of  this  imbroglio,  which  he  hated; 
of  Eiddsley  and  the  Gatehouse  and  the  old  life  there !  He 
could  go  to  his  inn  and  sleep  the  clock  round.  In  his  bed 
he  would  be  safe,  he  would  be  free  from  troubles.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  refuge.  Till  the  morrow  he  need  think  of 
nothing,  and  when  he  came  forth  again  it  would  be  to  a 
new  life.  Henceforth  Blore,  his  old  house  and  his  starved 
acres  must  bound  his  ambitions.  With  the  money  which 
John  Audley  had  left  him  he  would  dig  and  drain  and  fence 
and  build,  and  be  by  turns  Talpa  the  mole  and  Castor  the 
beaver.  In  time,  as  he  began  to  see  the  fruit  of  his  toil, 
he  would  win  to  some  degree  of  content,  and  be  glad,  look- 
ing back,  that  he  had  made  this  trial  of  his  powers,  this 
essay  towards  a  wider  usefulness.  So,  in  the  end,  he  would 
come  through  to  peace. 

But  at  this  point  the  current  of  his  thoughts  eddied 
against  Toft,  and  he  cursed  the  man  anew.  Why  had  he 
played  these  tricks?  Why  had  he  kept  back  this  paper? 
Why  had  he  produced  it  now  and  cast  on  others  this 
unpleasant  task? 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

TOFT'S    LITTLE   SURPRISE 

TOFT  had  gone  into  Riddsley  on  the  polling-day,  but  had 
returned  before  the  result  was  known.  "  What  the  man  was 
thinking  of/'  his  wife  declared  in  wrath,  "beats  me!  *  To 
be  there  hours  and  hours  and  come  out  no  wiser  than  he 
went,  and  we  waiting  to  hear — a  babe  would  ha*  had  more 
sense!  The  young  master  that  we've  known  all  our  lives, 
to  be  in  or  out,  and  we  to  know  nothing  till  morning !  It 
passes  patience! " 

Mary  had  her  own  feelings,  but  she  concealed  them. 
"  He  must  know  how  it  was  going  when  he  left  ?  "  she  said. 

"He  doesn't  know  an  identical  thing!"  Mrs.  Toft  re- 
plied. "  And  all  he'd  say  was,  '  There,  there,  what  does  it 
matter?'  For  all  the  world  as  if  he  spoke  to  a  child! 
'What  else  matters,  man?'  says  I.  'What  did  you  go 
for?'  But  there,  Miss,  he's  beyond  me  these  days!  I 
believe  he's  going  like  the  poor  master,  that  had  a  bee  in 
his  bonnet,  God  forgive  me  for  saying  it !  But  what'd  one 
not  say,  and  we  to  wait  till  morning  not  knowing  whether 
those  plaguy  Repealers  are  in  or  out !  " 

"  But  Mr.  Basset  is  for  Repeal,"  Mary  said. 

"What  matter  what  he's  for,  if  he'd  in?"  Mrs.  Toft 
replied  loftily.  "But  to  wait  till  morning  to  know — the 
man's  no  better  than  a  numps !  " 

In  the  end,  it  was  Mr.  Colet  who  brought  the  news  to 
the  Gatehouse.  He  brought  it  to  Etruria  and  so  much  of 
moment  with  it  that  before  noon  the  election  result  had 
been  set  aside  as  a  trifle,  and  Mary  found  herself  holding  a 
kind  of  court  in  the  parlor — Mr.  Colet  plaintiff,  Etruria 

375 


376  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

defendant,  Mrs.  Toft  counsel  for  the  defence.  Absence  had 
but  strengthened  Mr.  Colet's  affection,  and  he  came  deter- 
mined to  come  to  an  understanding  with  his  mistress.  He 
saw  his  way  to  making  a  small  income  by  writing  sermons 
for  his  more  indolent  brethren,  and,  in  the  meantime,  Mr. 
Basset  was  giving  him  food  and  shelter;  in  return  he  was 
keeping  Mr.  Basset's  accounts,  and  he  was  saving  a  little, 
a  very  little,  money.  But  the  body  of  his  plea  rested  not  on 
these  counts,  but  on  the  political  change.  Repeal  was  in  the 
air,  repeal  was  in  the  country.  Vote  as  Riddsley  might, 
the  Corn  Laws  were  doomed.  His  opinions  would  no 
longer  be  banned;  they  would  soon  be  the  opinions  of  the 
majority,  and  with  a  little  patience  he  might  find  a  new 
curacy.  When  that  happened  he  wished  to  marry  Etruria. 

"And  why  not?"  Mary  asked. 

"I  will  never  marry  him  to  disgrace  him,"  Etruria 
replied.  She  stood  with  bowed  head,  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  her  beautiful  eyes  lowered. 

"  But  you  love  him  ?  "  Mary  said,  blushing  at  her  own 
words. 

"  If  I  did  not  love  him  I  might  marry  him,"  Etruria 
rejoined.  "I  am  a  servant,  my  father's  a  servant.  I 
should  be  wronging  him,  and  he  would  live  to  know  it." 

"  To  my  way  o'  thinking,  'Truria's  right,"  her  mother 
said.  "  I  never  knew  good  come  of  such  a  marriage !  He's 
poor,  begging  his  reverence's  pardon,  but,  poor  or  rich,  his 
place  is  there."  She  pointed  to  the  table.  "  And  'Truria's 
place  is  behind  his  chair." 

"But  you  forget,"  Mary  said,  "that  when  she  is  Mr. 
Colet's  wife  her  place  will  be  by  his  side." 

"  And  much  good  that'll  do  him  with  the  parsons  and 
such  like,  as  are  all  gleg  together!  If  he's  in  their  black 
books  for  preaching  too  free — and  when  you  come  to  tithes 
one  parson  is  as  like  another  as  pigs  o'  the  same  litter — 
he'll  not  better  himself  by  taking  such  as  Etruria,  take  my 
word  for  it,  Miss ! " 


TOFT'S  LITTLE  SURPRISE  377 

"  I  will  never  do  it,"  said  Etruria. 

"  But,"  Mary  protested,  "  Mr.  Colet  need  not  live  here, 
and  in  another  part  people  will  not  know  what  his  wife 
has  been.  Etruria  has  good  manners  and  some  education, 
Mrs.  Toft,  and  what  she  does  not  know  she  will  learn.  She 
will  be  judged  by  what  she  is.  If  there  is  a  drawback,  it 
is  that  such  a  marriage  will  divide  her  from  you  and  from 
her  father.  But  if  you  are  prepared  for  that?" 

Mrs.  Toft  rubbed  her  nose.  "We'd  be  willing  if  that 
were  all,"  she  said.  "  She'd  come  to  us  sometimes,  and 
there'd  be  no  call  for  us  to  go  to  her." 

Mr.  Colet  looked  at  Etruria.  "  If  Etruria  will  come  to 
me,"  he  said,  "  I  will  be  ashamed  neither  of  her  nor  her 
parents." 

"  Bravely  said !  "  Mary  cried. 

"  But  there's  more  to  it  than  that,"  Mrs.  Toft  objected. 
"  A  deal  more.  Mr.  Colet  nor  'Truria  can't  live  upon  air. 
And  it's  my  opinion  that  if  his  reverence  gets  a  curacy,  he'll 
lose  it  as  soon  as  it's  known  who  his  wife  is.  And  he  can't 
dig  and  he  can't  beg,  and  where'll  they  be  with  the  parsons 
all  sticking  to  one  another  as  close  as  wax  ?  " 

"  He'll  not  need  them !  "  replied  a  new  speaker,  and  that 
speaker  was  Toft.  He  had  entered  silently,  none  of  them 
had  seen  him,  and  the  interruption  took  them  aback. 
"He'll  not  need  them,"  he  repeated,  "nor  their  curacies. 
He'll  not  need  to  dig  nor  beg.  There's  changes  coming. 
There's  changes  coming  for  more  than  him,  Miss.  If  Mr. 
Colet's  willing  to  take  my  girl  she'll  not  go  to  him  empty- 
handed." 

"I  will  take  her  as  she  stands,"  Mr.  Colet  said,  his 
eyes  shining.  "  She  knows  that." 

"  Well,  you'll  take  her,  sir,  asking  your  pardon,  with 
what  I  give  her,"  Toft  answered.  "And  that'll  be  five 
hundred  pounds  that  I  have  in  hand,  and  five  hundred 
more  that  I  look  to  get.  Put  'em  together  and  they'll  buy 


378  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

what's  all  one  with  a  living,  and  you'll  be  your  own  rector 
and  may  snap  your  fingers  at  'em !  " 

They  stared  at  the  man,  while  Mrs.  Toft,  in  an  awe- 
struck tone,  cried,  "  You're  out  of  your  mind,  Toft !  Five 
hundred  pounds!  Whoever  heard  of  the  like  of  us  with 
that  much  money  ?  " 

"  Silence,  woman,"  Toft  said.  "  You  know  naught 
about  it." 

"  But,  Toft,"  Mary  said,  "  are  you  in  earnest  ?  Do  you 
understand  what  a  large  sum  of  money  this  is?  " 

"  I  have  it,"  the  man  replied,  his  sallow  cheek  reddening. 
"  I  have  it,  and  it's  for  Etruria." 

"If  this  be  true,"  Mr.  Colet  said  slowly,  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  say,  Toft." 

"  You've  said  all  that  is  needful,  sir,"  Toft  replied. 
"  It's  long  I've  looked  forward  to  this.  She's  yours,  and 
she'll  not  come  to  you  empty-handed,  and  you'll  have  no 
need  to  be  ashamed  of  a  wife  that  brings  you  a  living. 
We'll  not  trouble  except  to  see  her  at  odd  times  in  the 
year.  It  will  be  enough  for  her  mother  and  me  that  she'll 
be  a  lady.  She  never  was  like  us." 

"  Hear  the  man ! "  cried  Mrs.  Toft  between  admiration 
and  protest.  "  You'd  suppose  she  wasn't  our  child !  " 

But  Mary  went  to  him  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "  That's 
very  fine,  Toft,"  she  said.  "  I  believe  Etruria  will  be  as 
happy  as  she  is  good,  and  Mr.  Colet  will  have  a  wife  of 
whom  he  may  be  proud.  But  Etruria  will  not  be  Etruria 
if  she  forgets  her  parents  or  your  gift.  Only  you  are  sure 
that  you  are  not  deceiving  yourself?  " 

"There's  my  bank-book  to  show  for  half  of  it,"  Toft 
replied.  "  The  other  half  is  as  certain  if  I  live  three 
months !  " 

"  Well,  I  declare !  "  Mrs.  Toft  cried.  "  If  anybody  'd 
told  me  yesterday  that  I'd  have — 'Truria,  han't  you  got  a 
word  to  say  ?  " 

Etruria's  answer  was  to  throw  her  arms  round  her 


TOFT'S  LITTLE  SURPRISE  379 

father's  neck.  Yet  it  is  doubtful  if  the  moment  was  as 
much  to  her  as  to  the  ungainly,  grim-visaged  man,  who 
looked  so  ill  at  ease  in  her  embrace. 

The  contrast  between  them  was  such  that  Mary  hastened 
to  relieve  the  sufferer.  "  Etruria  will  have  more  to  say  to 
Mr.  Colet,"  she  said,  "  than  to  us.  Suppose  we  leave  them 
to  talk  it  over." 

She  saw  the  Tofts  out  after  another  word  or  two,  and 
followed  them.  "  Well,  well,  well !  "  said  Mrs.  Toft,  when 
they  stood  in  the  hall.  "  I'm  sure  I  wish  that  everybody 
was  as  lucky  this  day — if  all's  true  as  Toft  tells  us." 

"  There's  some  in  luck  that  don't  know  it !  "  the  man  said 
oracularly.  And  he  slid  away. 

"  If  he  said  black  was  white,  I'd  believe  him  after  this," 
his  wife  exclaimed,  "  asking  your  pardon,  Miss,  for  the 
liberties  we've  taken!  But  you'd  always  a  fancy  for 
'Truria.  Anyway,  if  there's  one  will  be  pleased  to  hear 
the  news,  it's  the  Squire !  If  I'd  some  of  those  nine  here 
that  voted  against  him  I'd  made  their  ears  burn !  " 

"  But  perhaps  they  thought  that  Mr.  Basset  was  wrong," 
Mary  said. 

"What  business  had  they  o'  thinking?"  Mrs.  Toft 
replied.  "They  had  ought  to  vote;  that's  enough  for 
them." 

"  Well,  it  does  seem  a  pity,"  Mary  allowed.  And  then, 
because  she  fancied  that  Mrs.  Toft  looked  at  her  with 
meaning,  she  went  upstairs  and,  putting  on  her  hat  and 
cloak,  went  out.  The  day  was  cold  and  bright,  a  sprinkling 
of  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  a  walk  promised  her  an 
opportunity  of  thinking  things  over.  Between  the  Butter- 
flies, at  the  entrance  to  the  flagged  yard,  she  hung  a 
moment  in  doubt,  then  she  set  off  across  the  park  in  the 
direction  of  the  Great  House. 

At  first  her  thoughts  were  busy  with  Etruria's  fortunes 
and  the  mysterious  windfall  which  had  enriched  Toft. 
How  had  he  come  by  it?  How  could  he  have  come  by  it? 


38o  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

And  was  the  man  really  sane?  But  soon  her  mind  took 
another  turn.  She  had  strayed  this  way  on  the  morning 
after  her  arrival  at  the  Gatehouse,  and,  remembering  this, 
she  looked  across  the  gray,  frost-bitten  park,  with  its  rows 
of  leafless  trees  and  its  naked  vistas.  Her  mind  travelled 
back  to  that  happy  morning,  and  involuntarily  she  glanced 
behind  her. 

But  to-day  no  one  followed  her,  no  one  was  thinking  of 
her.  Basset  was  gone,  gone  for  good,  and  it  was  she  who 
had  sent  him  away.  The  May  morning  when  he  had  hur- 
ried after  her,  the  May  sunshine,  gay  with  the  songs  of 
larks  and  warm  with  the  scents  of  spring  were  of  the  past. 
To-day  she  looked  on  a  bare,  cold  landscape  and  her 
thoughts  matched  it.  Yet  she  had  no  ground  to  complain, 
she  told  herself,  no  reason  to  be  unhappy.  Things  might 
have  been  worse,  ah,  so  much  worse,  she  reflected.  For  a 
week  ago  she  had  been  a  captive,  helpless,  netted  in  her 
own  folly !  And  now  she  was  free. 

Yes,  she  ought  to  be  happy,  being  free ;  and,  more  than 
free,  independent. 

But  she  must  go  from  here.  And  for  many  reasons  the 
thought  of  going  was  painful  to  her.  During  the  nine 
months  which  she  had  spent  at  the  Gatehouse  it  had  become 
a  home.  Its  panelled  rooms,  its  austerity,  its  stillness, 
the  ancient  woodlands  about  it  were  endeared  to  her  by 
the  memory  of  lamp-lit  evenings  and  long  summer  days. 
The  very  plainness  and  solitude  of  the  life,  which  had 
brought  the  Tofts  and  Etruria  so  near  to  her,  had  been  a 
charm.  And  if  her  sympathy  with  her  uncle  had  been 
imperfect,  still  he  had  been  her  uncle  and  he  had  been 
kind  to  her. 

All  this  she  must  leave,  and  something  else  which  she 
did  not  define;  which  was  bound  up  with  it,  and  which 
she  had  come  to  value  when  it  was  too  late.  She  had  taken 
brass  for  gold,  and  tin  for  silver!  And  now  it  was  too 
late.  So  that  it  was  no  wonder  that  when  she  came  to 


TOFTS  LITTLE  SURPRISE  381 

the  hawthorn-tree  where  she  had  gathered  her  may  that 
morning,  a  sob  rose  in  her  throat.  She  knew  the  tree! 
She  had  marked  it  often.  But  to-day  there  was  no  one  to 
follow  her,  no  one  to  call  her  back,  no  one  to  say  that  she 
should  go  no  farther.  Basset  was  gone,  her  uncle  was  dead. 

Telling  herself  that,  as  she  would  never  see  it  again,  she 
would  go  as  far  as  the  Great  House,  she  pushed  on  to  the 
Yew  Walk.  Its  recesses  showed  dark,  the  darker  for  the 
sprinkling  of  snow  that  lay  in  the  park.  But  it  was  high 
noon,  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  and  she  pursued  the  path 
until  she  came  to  the  crumbling  monster  that  tradition  said 
was  a  butterfly. 

She  was  still  viewing  it  with  awe,  thinking  now  of  the 
duel  which  had  taken  place  there,  now  of  her  uncle's 
attack,  when  a  bird  moved  in  the  copse  and  she  glanced 
nervously  behind  her,  expecting  she  knew  not  what.  The 
dark  yews  shut  her  in,  and  involuntarily  she  shivered. 
What  if,  in  this  solitary  place — and  then  through  the 
silence  the  sharp  click  of  the  Iron  Gate  reached  her  ear. 

The  stillness  and  the  associations  shook  her  nerves.  She 
heard  footsteps  and,  hardly  knowing  what  she  feared,  she 
slipped  among  the  trees  and  stood  half-hidden.  A  moment 
passed  and  a  man  appeared.  He  came  from  the  Great 
House.  He  crossed  the  opening  slowly,  his  chin  sunk  upon 
his  breast,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  path  before  him.  A  moment 
and  he  was  gone,  the  way  she  had  come,  without  seeing  her. 

It  was  Lord  Audley,  and  foolish  as  the  impulse  to  hide 
herself  had  been,  she  blessed  it.  Nothing  pleasant,  nothing 
good,  could  have  come  of  their  meeting;  and  into  her 
thoughts  of  him  had  crept  so  much  of  distaste  that  she  was 
glad  that  she  had  not  met  him  in  this  lonely  spot.  She 
went  on  to  the  Iron  Gate,  and  viewed  for  a  few  moments 
the  desolate  lawn  and  the  long,  gaunt  front.  Then, 
reflecting  that  if  she  turned  back  at  once  she  might  meet 
him,  she  took  a  side-path  through  the  plantation,  and 
emerged  on  the  park  at  another  point. 


382  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

She  was  careful  not  to  reach  home  until  late  in  the  day 
and  then  she  learned  that  he  had  called,  that  he  had  waited, 
and  that  in  the  end  Toft  had  seen  him ;  and  that  he  had 
departed  in  no  good  temper.  "  What  Toft  said  to  him," 
Mrs.  Toft  reported,  "  I  know  no  more  than  the  moon,  but 
whatever  it  was  his  lordship  marched  off,  Miss,  as  black  as 
thunder." 

After  that  nothing  happened,  and  of  the  four  at  the 
Gatehouse  Etruria  alone  was  content.  Mrs.  Toft  was  un- 
easy about  the  future — what  were  they  going  to  do? — and 
perplexed  by  Toft's  mysterious  fortune — how  had  he  come 
by  it?  Toft  himself  was  on  the  rack,  looking  for  things 
to  happen — and  nothing  happened.  And  Mary  knew  that 
she  must  take  action.  She  could  not  stay  at  the  Gatehouse, 
she  could  not  remain  as  the  guest  either  of  Basset  or  of 
Lord  Audley. 

But  she  did  not  know  where  to  go,  and  no  suggestion 
reached  her.  At  length  she  wrote,  two  days  after  Lord 
Audley's  visit,  to  Quebec  Street,  to  the  house  where  she 
had  stayed  with  her  father  many  years  before.  It  was 
the  only  address  of  the  kind  that  she  knew.  But  she 
received  no  answer,  and  her  heart  sank.  The  difficulty, 
small  as  it  was,  harassed  her;  she  had  no  adviser,  and  ten 
times  a  day,  to  keep  up  her  spirits,  she  had  to  tell  herself 
that  she  was  independent,  that  she  had  eight  thousand 
pounds,  that  the  whole  world  was  open  to  her,  and  that 
compared  with  the  penniless  girl  who  had  lived  on  the 
upper  floor  of  the  Hotel  Lambert  she  was  fortunate ! 

But  in  the  Hotel  Lambert  she  had  had  work  to  do,  and 
here  she  had  none ! 

She  thought  of  taking  rooms  in  Riddsley,  but  Lord 
Audley  was  there  and  she  shrank  from  meeting  him.  She 
would  wait  another  week  for  the  answer  from  London,  and 
then,  if  none  came,  she  must  decide  what  she  would  do. 
But  in  her  room  that  night  the  thought  that  Basset  had 
abandoned  her,  that  he  no  longer  cared,  no  longer  desired 


TOFT'S  LITTLE  SURPRISE  383 

to  come  near  her,  broke  her  down.  Of  course,  he  was  not 
to  blame.  He  fancied  her  still  engaged  to  her  cousin  and 
receiving  from  him  all  the  advice,  all  the  help,  all  the  love, 
she  needed.  He  fancied  her  happy  and  content,  in  no  need 
of  him.  And,  alas,  there  was  the  pinch.  She  had  written 
to  him  to  tell  him  of  her  engagement.  She  could  not  write 
to  him  to  tell  him  that  it  was  at  an  end ! 

And  then,  by  the  morrow's  post,  there  came  a  long  letter 
from  Basset,  and  in  the  letter  the  whole  astonishing,  over- 
whelming story  of  the  discovery  of  the  document  which 
John  Audley  had  sought  so  long,  and  in  the  end  so 
disastrously. 

"  No  doubt,"  the  writer  added,  "  Lord  Audley  has  made 
you  acquainted  with  the  facts,  but  I  think  it  my  duty  as 
your  uncle's  executor  to  lay  them  before  you  in  detail  and 
also  to  advise  you  that  in  your  interest  and  in  view  of  the 
change  in  your  position — and  in  Lord  Audley's — which 
this  imports,  it  is  proper  that  you  should  have  independent 
advice/' 

The  blood  ebbed  and  left  Mary  pale;  it  returned  in  a 
flood  as  with  a  bounding  heart  and  shaking  fingers  she 
read  and  turned  and  re-read  this  letter.  At  length  she 
grasped  its  meaning,  and  truly  what  astounding,  what 
overwhelming  news!  What  a  shift  of  fortune!  What  a 
reversal  of  expectations!  And  how  strangely,  how  singu- 
larly had  all  things  shaped  themselves  to  bring  this  about 
— were  it  true ! 

Unable  to  sit  still,  unable  to  control  her  excitement — and 
no  wonder — she  rose  and  paced  the  floor.  If  she  were  in- 
deed Lady  Audley!  If  this  were  indeed  all  hers!  This 
dear  house  and  the  Great  House !  This  which  had  seemed 
to  its  possessor  so  small,  so  meagre,  so  cramping  an  inheri- 
tance, but  was  to  her  fortune,  an  old  name,  a  great  place, 
a  firm  position  in  the  world!  A  position  that  offered  so 
many  opportunities  and  so  much  power  for  good ! 


384  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

She  walked  the  room  with  throbbing  pulses,  the  letter 
now  crushed  in  her  hand,  now  smoothed  out  that  she  might 
assure  herself  of  its  meaning,  might  read  again  some  word 
or  some  sentence,  might  resolve  some  doubt.  Oh,  it  was 
a  wonderful,  it  was  a  marvellous,  it  was  an  incredible 
turn  of  fortune!  And  presently  her  mind  began  to  deal 
with  and  to  sift  the  past.  And,  enlightened,  she  under- 
stood many  of  the  things  that  had  perplexed  her,  and  read 
many  of  the  riddles  that  had  baffled  her.  And  her  cheeks 
burned,  her  heart  was  hot  with  indignation. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE   DEED  OF   RENUNCIATION 

BASSET  moved  in  his  chair.  He  was  unhappy  and  ill  at 
ease.  He  looked  at  the  fire,  he  looked  askance  at  Mary. 
"But  do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "that  you  knew  nothing 
about  this  until  you  had  my  letter  ?  " 

"  Xo thing/'  Mary  answered,  "  not  a  word/'  She,  too, 
found  it  more  easy  to  look  at  the  fire. 

"You  must  have  been  very  much  surprised?" 

"  I  was.  It  was  for  that  reason  that  I  asked  you  to 
bring  me  the  papers — to  bring  me  everything,  so  that  I 
might  see  for  myself  how  it  was." 

"I  don't  understand  why  Audley  did  not  tell  you.  He 
said  he  would." 

It  was  the  question  Mary  had  foreseen  and  dreaded. 
She  had  slept  two  nights  upon  the  letter  and  given  a  long 
day's  thought  to  it,  and  she  had  made  up  her  mind  what 
she  would  do  and  how  she  would  do  it.  But  between 
the  planning  and  the  doing  there  were  passages  which  she 
would  fain  have  shunned,  fain  have  omitted,  had  it  been 
possible;  and  this  was  one  of  them.  She  saw  that  there 
was  nothing  else  for  it,  however — the  thing  must  be  told, 
and  told  by  her.  She  tried,  and  not  without  success,  to 
command  her  voice.  "  He  did  not  tell  me,"  she  said.  "  In- 
deed I  have  not  seen  him.  And  I  ought  to  say,  Mr.  Basset, 
you  ought  to  know  in  these  circumstances — that  the  en- 
gagement between  my  cousin  and  myself  is  at  an  end." 

He  may  have  started — he  might  well  be  astonished,  in 
view  of  the  business  which  brought  him  there.  But  he 
did  not  speak,  and  Mary  could  not  tell  what  effect  it  had 

385 


386  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

on  him.  She  only  knew  that  the  silence  seemed  age-long, 
the  pause  cruel,  and  that  her  heart  was  beating  so  loudly 
that  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  mu?t  hear  it.  At  last,  "  Do 
you  mean,"  he  asked,  his  voice  muffled  and  uncertain,  "  that 
it  is  all  over  between  you?" 

"  It  is  quite  over  between  us,"  she  answered  soberly.  "  It 
was  a  mistake  from  the  beginning." 

"  When— when  did  he " 

"  Oh,  before  this  arose.  Some  time  before  this  arose." 
She  spoke  lightly,  but  her  cheeks  were  hot. 

"  He  did  not  tell  me." 

"No?" 

"  No,"  Basset  repeated.  He  spoke  angrily,  as  if  he  felt 
this  a  grievance,  but  in  no  other  way  could  he  have  masked 
his  emotion.  Perhaps  he  did  not  mask  it  altogether,  for 
she  was  observing  him — ah,  how  keenly  was  she  observing 
him !  "  On  the  contrary,  he  led  me  to  believe,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  that  things  were  as  before  between  you,  and  that 
he  would  tell  you  this  himself.  It  was  for  that  reason 
that  I  let  a  week  go  by  before  I  wrote  to  you." 

"Just  so,"  she  said,  squeezing  her  handkerchief  into  a 
ball,  and  telling  herself  that  the  worst  was  over  now,  the 
story  told,  that  in  another  minute  this  would  be  done  and 
past.  "  Just  so,  I  quite  understand.  At  any  rate  there 
is  no  longer  any  question  of  that,  Mr.  Basset.  And  now," 
briskly,  "  may  I  see  this  famous  deed  which  is  to  do  so 
much.  You  brought  it  with  you,  I  hope?" 

"  Yes,  I  brought  it,"  he  answered  heavily.  He  took  a 
packet  of  papers  from  his  breast-pocket,  and  it  did  not 
escape  her — she  was  cooler  now — that  his  fingers  were  not 
as  steady  as  a  man's  fingers  should  be.  The  packet  he 
brought  out  was  tied  about  with  old  and  faded  green 
ribbon,  and  bore  a  docket  on  the  outside.  She  looked  at 
it  with  curiosity.  That  ribbon  had  been  tied  by  a  long- 
dead  hand  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne !  Those  yellowish 
papers  had  lain  in  damp  and  darkness  a  hundred  and  forty 


THE  DEED  OF  RENUNCIATION1  387 

years,  that  in  the  end  they  might  take  John  Audley's  life ! 
"I  brought  them  from  the  bank  this  afternoon/'  he  ei- 
plained.  "  They  have  been  in  the  bank's  custody  since  they 
were  handed  to  me,  and  I  must  return  them  to  the  bank 
to-night." 

"  Everything  depends  upon  them,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Everything." 

"But  I  thought  that  it  was  a  deed — just  one  paper?" 
she  said. 

"  The  actual  instrument  is  a  deed.  This  one !  "  He 
took  it  from  the  series  as  he  untied  the  packet.  "  The 
other  papers  are  of  value  as  corroboration.  They  are 
letters,  original  letters,  bearing  on  the  preparation  of  the 
agreement.  They  were  found  all  together  as  they  are  now, 
and  in  the  same  order.  I  did  not  disclose  the  letters  to 
Audley,  or  to  his  lawyer,  because  I  had  not  then  gone 
through  them;  nor  was  it  necessary  to  disclose  them.  I 
have  since  examined  them,  and  they  provide  ample  proof 
of  the  genuineness  of  the  deed." 

"  So  that  you  think  .   .   .  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  that  it  can  be  contested.  I  am  sure 
that  it  cannot — with  success.  And  if  it  be  admitted,  your 
opponent's  case  is  gone.  It  was  practically  common  ground 
in  the  former  suit  that  if  this  agreement  could  be  produced 
and  proved  his  claim  fell  to  the  ground.  Yours  remains. 
I  do  not  suppose,"  Basset  concluded,  "  that  he  will  contest 
it,  save  as  a  matter  of  form." 

"I  am  sorry  for  him,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  And 
almost  for  the  first  time  her  eyes  met  his.  But  he  was 
not  responsive.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  He  has  had 
it  long  enough  to  feel  the  loss  of  it,"  she  continued,  still 
bidding  for  his  sympathy.  "  May  I  look  at  that  now— the 
deed  ?  "  She  held  out  her  hand. 

He  gave  it  to  her.  It  was  a  folded  sheet  of  parchment, 
yellow  with  age  and  not  very  large,  perhaps  ten  inches 
square.  Three  or  four  seals  of  green  wax  on  ribbon  ends 


3S8  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

dangled  from  it.  It  was  written  all  over  in  a  fine  and 
curious  penmanship,  its  initial  letter  adorned  with  a  por- 
trait of  Queen  Anne ;  altogether  a  pretty  and  delicate  thing, 
but  small — so  small,  she  thought,  to  effect  so  great  a 
change,  to  carry,  to  wreck,  to  make  the  fortunes  of  a 
house ! 

She  handled  it  gently,  almost  fearfully,  with  awe  and  a 
little  distaste.  She  turned  it,  she  read  the  signatures. 
They  were  clear  but  faint.  The  ink  had  turned  brown. 

"  Peter  Paravicini  Audley,"  she  murmured.  "  He  must 
have  signed  it  sadly,  to  save  his  wife,  his  cousin,  a  young 
girl,  a  girl  of  my  age  perhaps !  To  save  her  name ! " 
There  was  a  quaver  in  her  voice.  Basset  moved  uncom- 
fortably. 

"  They  are  all  dead,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  they  are  all  dead,"  she  agreed.  "  And  their  joys 
and  failings,  hopes  and  fears — all  dead!  It  seems  a  pity 
that  this  should  live  to  betray  them." 

"  Not  a  pity  on  your  account." 

" Xo.    You  are  glad,  of  course?" 

"  That  you  should  have  your  rights  ?  "  he  said  manfully. 
"  Of  course  I  am." 

"  And  you  congratulate  me  ?  "  She  rose  and  held  out 
her  hand.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  there  were  tears  in  them, 
and  her  face  was  marvellously  soft.  "  You  will  be  the  first, 
won't  you,  to  congratulate  me?  You  who  have  done  so 
much  for  me,  you  who  have  been  my  friend  through  all? 
You  who  have  brought  me  this?  You  will  wish  me  joy?  " 

He  was  deeply  moved;  how  deeply  he  could  not  hide 
from  her,  and  her  last  doubt  faded.  He  took  her  hand — his 
own  was  cold — but  he  could  not  speak.  At  last,  "  May  you 
be  very  happy!  It  is  my  one  wish,  Lady  Audley! " 

She  let  his  hand  fall.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  gently. 
"I  think  that  I  shall  be  happy.  And  now — now,"  in  a 
firmer  tone,  "will  you  do  something  for  me,  Mr.  Basset? 
It  is  not  much.  Will  you  deal  with  Toft  for  me?  You 


THE  DEED  OF  RENUNCIATION  389 

told  me  in  your  letter  that  he  held  my  uncle's  note  for  £800, 
to  be  paid  in  the  event  of  the  discovery  of  these  papers? 
And  that  £300,  already  paid,  might  be  set  off  against 
this?" 

"  That  is  so." 

"  The  money  should  be  paid,  of  course." 

"  I  fear  it  must  be  paid." 

"  Will  you  see  him  and  tell  him  that  it  shall  be.  I — I 
ain  fond  of  Etruria,  but  I  am  not  so  fond  of  Toft,  and  I 
would  rather  not — would  you  see  him  about  this?" 

"  I  quite  understand,"  Basset  answered.  "  Of  course  I 
will  do  it."  They  had  both  regained  the  ordinary  plane  of 
feeling  and  he  spoke  in  his  usual  tone.  "  You  would  like 
me  to  see  him  now?" 

"  If  you  please." 

He  went  from  the  room.  There  were  other  things  that 
as  executor  he  must  arrange,  and  when  he  had  dealt  with 
Toft,  and  not  without  a  hard  word  or  two  that  went  home, 
had  settled  that  matter,  he  went  round  the  house  and  gave 
the  orders  he  had  to  give.  The  light  was  beginning  to 
fail  and  shadows  to  fill  the  corners,  and  as  he  glanced  into 
this  room  and  that  and  viewed  the  long-remembered  places 
and  saw  ghosts  and  heard  the  voices  of  the  dead,  he  knew 
that  he  was  taking  leave  of  many  things,  of  things  that  had 
made  up  a  large  part  of  his  life. 

And  he  had  other  thoughts  hardly  more  cheering. 
Mary's  engagement  was  broken  off.  But  how?  By 
whom?  Had  she  freed  herself?  Or  had  Audley,  immemor 
Divum,  and  little  foreseeing  the  discovery  that  trod  upon 
his  threshold,  freed  her  ?  And  if  so,  why  ?  He  was  in  the 
dark  as  to  this  and  as  to  all — her  attitude,  her  thoughts,  her 
feelings.  He  knew  only  that  while  her  freedom  trebled  the 
moment  of  the  news  he  had  brought,  the  gifts  of  fortune 
which  that  news  laid  at  her  feet,  rose  insuperable  between 
them  and  formed  a  barrier  he  could  not  pass. 

For  he  could  never  woo  her  now.     Whatever  dawn  of 


390  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

hope  crept  quivering  above  the  horizon — and  she  had  been 
kind,  ah,  in  that  moment  of  softness  and  remembrance  she 
had  been  kind ! — he  could  never  speak  now. 

The  dusk  was  far  advanced  and  firelight  was  almost  the 
only  light  when,  after  half  an  hour's  absence,  he  returned 
to  the  parlor.  Mary  was  standing  before  the  hearth,  her 
slender  figure  darkly  outlined  against  the  blaze.  She  held 
the  poker  in  her  hand,  and  she  was  stooping  forward ;  and 
something  in  her  pose,  something  in  the  tense  atmosphere 
of  the  room,  drew  his  gaze — he  never  knew  why — to  the 
table  on  which  he  had  left  the  papers.  It  was  bare.  He 
looked  round,  he  could  not  see  them,  a  cry  broke  from  him. 
"  Mary ! " 

"  They  don't  burn  easily,"  she  said,  a  quaver  of  exulta- 
tion and  defiance  in  her  tone.  "  Parchment  is  so  hard  to 
burn — it  burns  so  slowly,  though  I  made  a  good  fire  on 
purpose ! " 

"  D — n !  "  he  cried,  and  he  was  going  to  seize,  he  tried 
to  seize  her  arm.  But  he  saw  the  next  moment  that  it  was 
useless,  he  saw  that  it  was  too  late.  "  Are  you  mad  ?  Are 
you  mad?"  he  cried.  Frantically,  he  went  down  on  his 
knees,  he  raked  among  the  embers.  But  he  knew  that  it 
was  futile,  he  had  known  it  before  he  knelt,  and  he  stood 
up  again  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  My  G — d !  "  he  said. 
"  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ?  You  have  destroyed 
what  cannot  be  replaced!  You  have  ruined  your  claim! 
You  must  have  been  mad !  Mad,  to  do  it !  " 

"  Why,  mad  ?  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  be  Lady  Aud- 
ley?  "  she  said,  facing  him  calmly,  with  her  hands  behind 
her. 

"  Mad ! "  he  repeated,  bitter  self-reproach  in  his  voice. 
For  he  felt  himself  to  blame,  he  felt  the  full  burden  of  his 
responsibility.  He  had  left  the  papers  with  her,  the  true 
value  of  which  she  might  not  have  known !  And  she  had 
done  this  dreadful,  this  fatal,  this  irreparable  thing! 

She  faced  his  anger  without  a  quiver.    "  Why,  mad ! " 


THE  DEED  OF  RENUNCIATION  391 

she  repeated.  She  was  quite  at  her  ease  now.  "  Because, 
having  been  jilted  by  my  cousin,  I  do  not  wish  for  this 
common,  this  vulgar,  this  poor  revenge?  Because  I  will 
not  stoop  to  the  game  he  plays  and  has  played?  Because 
I  will  not  take  from  him  what  is  little  to  me  who  have  not 
had  it,  but  much,  nay  all,  to  him  who  has?  " 

"  But  your  uncle  ? "  he  cried.  He  was  striving  des- 
perately to  collect  himself,  trying  to  see  the  thing  all  round 
and  not  only  as  she  saw  it,  but  in  its  consequences.  "  Your 
uncle,  whose  one  aim,  whose  one  object  in  life " 

"  Was  to  be  Lord  Audley  ?  Believe  me,"  she  replied 
gently,  "  he  sees  more  clearly  now.  And  he  is  dead." 

"  But  there  are  still — those  who  come  after  you?" 

"Will  they  be  better,  happier,  more  useful?"  she 
answered.  "  Will  they  be  less  Audleys,  with  less  of  ancient 
blood  running  in  their  veins  because  of  what  I  have  done? 
Because  I  have  refused  to  rake  up  this  old,  pitiful,  for- 
gotten stain,  this  scandal  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ?  No,  a  thou- 
sand times  no!  And  do  not  think,  do  not  think,"  she 
continued  more  soberly,  "  that  I  have  acted  in  haste  or  on 
impulse.  I  have  not  had  this  out  of  my  thoughts  for  a 
moment  since  I  knew  the  truth.  I  have  weighed,  care- 
fully weighed,  the  price,  and  as  carefully  decided  to  pay  it. 
My  duty?  I  can  do  it,  I  hope,  as  well  in  one  station  as 
another.  For  the  rest  there  is  only  one  who  will  lose  by 
it " — she  faced  him  bravely  now — "  only  one  who  will  have 
the  right  to  blame  me — ever." 

"  I  may  have  no  right " 

"  No  you  have  no  right  at  present" 

«  still " 

"  When  you  have  the  right — when  you  have  gained  the 
right,  if  ever — you  may  blame  me." 

Was  he  deceived  ?  Was  it  the  fact  or  only  his  fancy,  a 
mere  will-o'-the-wisp  inviting  him  to  trouble  that  led  him 
to  imagine  that  she  looked  at  him  queerly?  With  a 
mingling  of  raillery  and  tenderness,  with  a  tear  and  a  smile, 


3Q2  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

with  something  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  never  seen  in  them 
before  ?  With — with — but  her  face  was  in  shadow,  she  had 
her  back  to  the  blaze  that  filled  the  room  with  dancing 
lights,  and  his  thoughts  were  in  a  turmoil  of  confusion. 
"  I  wish  I  knew,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  what  you  meant 
by  that?" 

"By  what?" 

"  By  what  you  have  just  said.  Did  you  mean  that  now 
that  he — now  that  Audley  is  out  of  the  way,  there  was  a 
chance  for  me  ?  " 

"A  chance  for  you?"  she  repeated.  She  stared  at  him 
in  seeming  astonishment. 

"  Don't  play  with  me ! "  he  cried,  advancing  upon  her. 
"You  understand  me?  You  understand  me  very  well! 
Yes,  or  no,  Mary,?  " 

She  did  not  flinch.  "  There  is  no  chance  for  you,"  she 
answered  slowly,  still  confronting  him.  "  If  there  be  a 
second  chance  for  me " 

"Ah!" 

"  For  me,  Peter  ?  "  And  with  that  her  tone  told  him 
all,  all  there  was  to  tell.  "  If  you  are  willing  to  take  me 
second-hand,"  she  continued,  with  a  tremulous  laugh,  "  you 
may  take  me.  I  don't  deserve  it,  but  I  know  my  own  mind 
now.  I  have  known  it  since  the  day  my  uncle  died  and  I 
heard  your  step  come  through  the  hall.  And  if  you  are 
still  willing?" 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but  he  took  her.  He  held  her  to 
him,  his  heart  too  full  for  anything  but  a  thankfulness  be- 
yond speech,  while  she,  shaken  out  of  her  composure, 
trembled  between  tears  and  laughter.  "  Peter !  Peter !  " 
she  said  again  and  again.  And  once,  "  We  are  the  same 
height,  Peter ! "  and  so  showed  him  a  new  side  of  her 
nature  which  thrilled  him  with  surprise  and  happiness. 

That  she  brought  him  no  title,  no  lands,  that  by  her  own 
act  she  had  flung  away  her  inheritance  and  came  to  him 
almost  empty-handed  was  no  pain  to  him,  no  subject  for 


THE  DEED  OF  RENUNCIATION  393 

regret.  On  the  contrary,  every  word  she  had  said  on  that, 
every  argument  she  had  used,  came  home  to  him  now  with 
double  force.  It  had  been  a  poor,  it  had  been  a  common, 
it  had  been  a  pitiful  revenge !  It  had  mingled  the  sordid 
with  the  cup,  it  had  cast  the  shadow  of  the  Great  House  on 
their  happiness.  In  that  room  in  which  they  had  shared 
their  first  meal  on  that  far  May  morning,  and  where  the 
light  of  the  winter  fire  now  shone  on  the  wainscot,  now 
brought  life  to  the  ruffed  portraits  above  it,  there  was  no 
question  of  name  or  fortune,  or  more  or  less. 

So  much  so,  that  when  Mrs.  Toft  came  in  with  the  tea 
she  well-nigh  dropped  the  tray  in  her  surprise.  As  she 
said  afterwards,  "  The  sight  of  them  two  as  close  as  chives 
in  a  barrel,  I  declare  you  might  ha*  knocked  me  down  with 
a  straw !  God  bless  'em !  " 


CHAPTER  XL 
"LET  us  MAKE  OTHERS  THANKFUL" 

A  MAN  can  scarcely  harbor  a  more  bitter  thought  than  that 
he  has  lost  by  foul  play  what  fair  play  would  have  won  for 
him.  This  for  a  week  was  Lord  Audley's  mood  and  posi- 
tion; for  masterful  as  he  was  he  owned  the  power  of 
Nemesis,  he  felt  the  force  of  tradition,  nor,  try  as  he 
might,  could  he  convince  himself  that  in  face  of  this  oft- 
cited  deed  his  chance  of  retaining  the  title  and  property 
was  anything  but  desperate.  He  made  the  one  attempt  to 
see  Mary  of  which  we  know;  and  had  he  seen  her  he  would 
have  done  his  best  to  knot  again  the  tie  which  he  had  cut. 
But  missing  her  by  a  hair's  breadth,  and  confronted  by 
Toft  who  knew  all,  he  had  found  even  his  courage  unequal 
to  a  second  attempt.  The  spirit  in  which  Mary  had  faced 
the  breach  had  shown  his  plan  to  be  from  the  first  a  coun- 
sel of  despair,  and  despairing  he  let  her  go.  In  a  dark 
mood  he  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  next  step  on  the  enemy's 
part,  firmly  resolved  that  whatever  form  it  might  take  he 
would  contest  the  claim  to  the  bitter  end. 

And  Stubbs  was  scarcely  in  happier  case.  At  the  time, 
and  face  to  face  with  Basset,  he  had  borne  up  well,  but 
the  production  of  the  fateful  deed  had  none  the  less  fallen 
on  him  with  stunning  effect.  He  appreciated — none  better 
and  more  clearly  now — what  the  effect  of  his  easiness  would 
have  been  had  Lord  Audley  not  been  engaged  to  his  cousin ; 
nor  did  his  negligence  appear  in  a  less  glaring  light  be- 
cause his  patron  was  to  escape  its  worst  results.  He  fore- 
saw that  whatever  befel  he  must  suffer,  and  that  the  agency 

394 


"LET  US  MAKE  OTHERS  THANKFUL"    395 

which  his  family  had  so  long  enjoyed — that,  that  at  any 
rate  was  forfeit. 

This  was  enough  to  make  him  a  most  unhappy,  a  most 
miserable  man.  But  it  did  not  stand  alone.  Everything 
seemed  to  him  to  be  going  wrong.  All  good  things,  public 
and  private,  seemed  to  be  verging  on  their  end.  The  world 
as  he  had  known  it  for  sixty  years  was  crumbling  about  his 
ears.  It  was  time  that  he  was  gone. 

Certainly  the  days  of  that  Protection  with  which  he  be- 
lieved the  welfare  of  the  land  to  be  bound  up,  were  num- 
bered. In  the  House  Lord  George  and  Mr.  Disraeli — those 
strangest  of  bedfellows ! — might  rage,  the  old  Protectionist 
party  might  foam,  invective  and  sarcasm,  taunt  and  sneer 
might  rain  upon  the  traitor  as  he  sat  with  folded  arms  and 
hat  drawn  down  to  his  eyes,  rectors  might  fume  and  squires 
swear;  the  end  was  certain,  and  Stubbs  saw  that  it  was. 
Those  rascals  in  the  North,  they  and  their  greed  and  smoke, 
that  stained  the  face  of  England,  would  win  and  were  win- 
ning. He  had  saved  Riddsley  by  nine — but  to  what  end? 
What  was  one  vote  among  so  many?  He  thought  of  the 
nut-brown  ale,  the  teeming  stacks,  the  wagoner's  home, 

Hard-by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 

He  thought  of  the  sweet  cow-stalls,  the  brook  where  he  had 
bent  his  first  pin,  and  he  sighed.  Half  the  country  folk 
would  be  ruined,  and  Shoddy  from  Halifax  and  Brass 
from  Bury  would  buy  their  lands  and  walk  in  gaiters  where 
better  men  had  foundered.  The  country  would  be  full  of 
new  men — Peels! 

Well,  it  would  last  his  time.  But  some  day  there  would 
rise  another  Buonaparte  and  they  would  find  Cobden  with 
his  calico  millennium  a  poor  stay  against  starvation,  his 
lean  and  flashy  songs  a  poor  substitute  for  wheat.  It  was 
all  money  now ;  the  kindly  feeling,  the  Christmas  dole,  the 


396  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

human  ties,  where  father  had  worked  for  father  and  son 
for  son,  and  the  thatch  had  covered  three  generations — all 
these  were  past  and  gone.  He  found  one  fault,  it  is  true, 
in  the  past.  He  had  one  regret,  as  he  looked  back.  The 
laborers'  wage  had  been  too  low ;  they  had  been  left  outside 
the  umbrella  of  Protection,  He  saw  that  now;  there  was 
the  weak  point  in  the  case.  "  That's  where  they  hit  us," 
he  said  more  than  once,  "  the  foundation  was  too  narrow." 
But  the  knowledge  came  too  late. 

Naturally  he  buried  his  private  mishap — and  my  lord's — 
in  silence.  But  his  mien  was  changed.  He  was  an  altered, 
a  shaken  man.  When  he  passed  through  the  streets,  he 
walked  with  his  chin  on  his  breast,  his  shoulders  bowed. 
He  shunned  men's  eyes.  Then  one  day  Basset  entered  his 
office  and  for  a  long  time  was  closeted  with  him. 

When  he  left  Stubbs  left  also,  and  his  bearing  was  so 
subtly  changed  as  to  impress  all  who  met  him;  while 
Farthingale,  stepping  out  in  his  absence,  drank  his  way 
through  three  brown  brandies  in  a  silence  which  grew  more 
portentous  with  every  glass.  At  The  Butterflies,  whither 
the  lawyer  hastened,  Audley  met  him  with  moody  and 
repellent  eyes,  and  in  the  first  flush  of  the  news  which  the 
lawyer  brought  refused  to  believe  it.  It  was  not  only  that 
the  tidings  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  the  relief  from  the 
nightmare  which  weighed  upon  him  too  great  to  be  readily 
accepted.  But  the  thing  that  Mary  had  done  was  so  far 
out  of  his  ken  and  so  much  beyond  his  understanding  that 
he  could  not  rise  to  it,  or  credit  it.  Even  when  he  at  last 
took  in  the  truth  of  the  story  he  put  upon  it  the  interpreta- 
tion that  was  natural  to  him. 

"  It  was  a  forgery !  "  he  cried  with  an  oath.  "  You  may 
depend  upon  it,  it  was  a  forgery  and  they  discovered  it." 

But  Stubbs  would  not  agree  to  that.  Stubbs  was  very 
stout  about  it,  and  giving  details  of  his  conversation  with 
Basset  gradually  persuaded  his  patron.  In  one  way,  indeed, 
the  news  coming  through  him  wrought  a  benefit  which 


"LET  US  MAKE  OTHERS  THANKFUL"    397 

neither  Mary  nor  Basset  had  foreseen.  It  once  more  com- 
mended him  to  Audley,  and  by  and  by  healed  the  breach 
which  had  threatened  to  sever  the  long  connection  between 
the  lawyer  and  Beaudelays.  If  Stubbs's  opinion  of  my  lord 
could  never  again  be  wholly  what  it  had  been,  if  Audley 
still  had  hours  of  soreness  when  the  other's  negligence  re- 
curred to  his  mind,  at  least  they  were  again  at  one  as  to 
the  future.  They  were  once  more  free  to  look  forward  to 
a  time  when  a  marriage  with  Lady  Adela,  or  her  like, 
would  rebuild  the  fortunes  of  the  Great  House.  Of  Audley, 
whose  punishment  if  short  had  been  severe,  one  thing  at 
least  may  be  ventured  with  safety — and  beyond  this  we 
need  not  inquire;  that  to  the  end  his  first,  last,  greatest 
thought  would  be — himself! 

Late  in  June,  the  Corn  Laws  were  repealed.  On  the 
same  day  Sir  Robert  Peel,  in  the  eyes  of  some  the  first, 
in  the  eyes  of  others  the  last  of  men,  was  forced  to  resign. 
Thwarted  by  old  friends  and  abandoned  by  new  ones,  he 
fell  by  a  manoeuvre  which  even  his  enemies  could  not  de- 
fend. Whether  he  was  more  to  be  blamed  for  blindness 
than  he  was  to  be  praised  for  rectitude,  are  questions  on 
which  party  spirit  has  much  to  say,  nor  has  history  as  yet 
pronounced  a  final  decision.  But  if  his  hand  gave  the  vic- 
tory to  the  class  from  which  he  sprang,  he  was  at  least  free 
from  the  selfishness  of  that  class.  He  had  ideals,  he  was 
a  man, 

He  nothing  common  did  nor  mean, 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  bowed  his  comely  head, 

Down  as  upon  a  bed. 

Nor  is  it  possible,  even  for  thost  who  do  not  agree  with 
him,  to  think  of  his  dramatic  fall  without  sympathy. 

In  tho  same  week  Basset  and  Mary  were  married.  They 
spent  their  honeymoon  after  a  fashion  of  thoir  own,  for 
they  travelled  through  the  north  of  England,  and  beginning 


398  THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

with  the  improvements  which  Lord  Francis  Egerton  was 
making  along  the  Manchester  Canal,  they  continued  their 
quiet  journey  along  the  inland  waterways  which  formed 
in  the  'forties  a  link,  now  forgotten,  between  the  great 
cities.  In  this  way — somewhat  to  the  disgust  of  Mary's 
new  maid,  whose  name  was  Josephine — they  visited  strange 
things;  the  famous  land-warping  upon  the  Humbcr,  the 
Doncaster  drainage  system  in  Yorkshire,  the  Ilorsfall 
dairies.  They  brought  back  to  the  old  gabled  house  at 
Bio  re  some  ideas  which  were  new  even  to  old  Hay  ward 
— though  the  "  Duke  "  would  never  have  admitted  this. 

"Now  that  we  are  not  protected,  we  must  bestir  our- 
selves," Basset  said  on  the  last  evening  before  their  return. 
"  I'll  inquire  about  a  seat,  if  you  like,"  he  added  reluc- 
tantly. 

Mary  was  standing  behind  him.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "  You  are  paying  me  out,  Peter,"  she  said. 
"  I  know  now  that  I  don't  know  as  much  as  I  thought  I 
knew." 

"  Which  means  ?  "  Basset  said,  smiling. 

"  That  once  I  thought  that  nothing  could  be  done  with- 
out an  earthquake.  I  know  now  that  it  can  be  done  with 
a  spade." 

"  So  that  where  Mary  was  content  with  nothing  but  a 
gilt  coach,  Mrs.  Basset  is  content  with  a  nutshell." 

"  If  you  are  in  the  nutshell,"  Mary  answered  softly, 
"  only — for  what  we  have  received,  Peter — let  us  make 
other  people  thankful." 

"  We  will  try,"  he  answered. 


THE    END 


Novels  by  Stanley  J.  Weyman 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  FRANCE 

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"A  genuine  and  admirable  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  The  spirit 
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mance lies  against  a  background  of  history  truly  painted.  .  .  . 
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his  resource  is  rich,  and  it  is,  moreover,  the  kind  of  a  story  that 
one  cannot  plainly  see  the  end  of  ...  the  story  reveals  a  knowl- 
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teresting."— New  York  Times. 

"As  perfect  a  novel  of  the  new  school  of  fiction  as  'Ivanhoe* 
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ing novelists.  .  .  .  There  are  but  two  characters  in  the  story — 
his  art  makes  all  other  but  unnoticed  shadows  cast  by  them — and 
the  attention  is  so  keenly  fixed  upon  one  or  both,  from  the  first 
word  to  the  last,  that  we  live  in  their  thoughts  and  see  the  drama 
unfolded  through  their  eyes." — N.  Y.  World. 

NEW  YORK:  LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO. 


NOVELS  BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


THE  RED  COCKADE.    A  novel  of  the  French  Revolution 

With  48  Illustrations  by  R.  Caton  Woodville.     $1.50  net. 

"Deserves  a  place  among  the  best  historical  fiction  of  the  latter 
part  of  this  century.  The  gradual  maddening  of  the  people  by 
agitators,  the  rising  of  those  who  have  revenges  to  feed,  the  burn- 
ings and  the  outrages  are  described  in  a  masterly  way.  The  attack 
on  the  castle  of  St.  Alais,  the  hideous  death  of  the  steward,  the 
looting  of  the  great  building,  and  the  escape  of  the  young  lovers — 
these  incidents  are  told  in  that  breathless  way  which  Weyman  has 
made  familiar  in  other  stories." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"It  will  be  scarcely  more  than  its  due  to  say  that  this  will  al- 
ways rank  among  Weyman's  best  work.  In  the  troublous  times  of 
1789  in  France  its  action  is  laid,  and  with  marvellous  skill  the 
author  has  delineated  the  most  striking  types  of  men  and  women 
who  made  the  Revolution  so  terrible." — New  York  World. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  WOLF.    A  Romance 

With  Frontispiece  and  Vignette  by  Charles  Kerr.     $1.35  net. 

"A  delightful  volume  .  .  .  one  of  the  brightest,  briskest  tales 
I  have  met  with  for  a  long  time.  Dealing  with  the  Eve  of  St. 
Bartholomew  it  portrays  that  night  of  horror  from  a  point  en- 
tirely new,  and,  we  may  add,  relieves  the  gloom  by  many  a  flash 
and  gleam  of  sunshine.  Best  of  all  is  the  conception  of  the  Vidame. 
His  character  alone  would  make  the  book  live." — Critic,  N.  Y. 

"A  romance  which,  although  short,  deserves  a  place  in  lit- 
erature alongside  of  Charles  Reade's  'Cloister  and  the  Hearth.'  .  .  . 
We  consider  it  one  of  the  best  examples  in  recent  fiction." 

— Commercial  Advertiser,  N.  Y. 

THE  ABBESS   OF  VLAYE 

With  Frontispiece.    $1.50  net. 

"This  is  an  interesting  and,  a*  times,  highly  dramatic  book. 
It  is  superior,  even,  to  'Under  the  Red  Robe'  and  'A  Gentleman 
of  France,'  which  are  reckoned  the  two  most  striking  of  his 
novels.  A  marked  and  skilful  feature  of  'The  Abbess  of  Vlaye' 
is  that  it  rises  constantly  toward  a  climax.  .  .  .  One  of  the 
charms  of  Mr.  Weyman's  writing,  emphasized  in  this,  his  latest 
book,  is  its  comprehension  of  detail  in  a  few  sentences.  .  .  ." 
— Evening  Post,  New  York. 

".  .  .  There  is  the  charm  of  the  unusual  love  story  and 
abundance  of  exciting  adventures,  all  wrought  into  a  dramatic 
unity.  The  author  is  entirely  at  home,  and  makes  us  at  home, 
in  the  story  of  the  period.  Since  'A  Gentleman  of  France'  he 
has  given  us  no  better  example  of  his  talent." — Congregationalist. 

NEW  YORK:  LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO. 


NOVELS  BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


THE  CASTLE  INN:  A  Romance  of  the  Time  of  George  III 
With  six  Illustrations  by  Walter  Appleton  Clark.     $1.50  net, 

"A  tale  which  is  full  of  old-world  romance  and  adventure. 
It  has  a  strong  flavor  of  the  under  life  in  England  when  George 
the  Third  was  young,  when  sign-posts  served  also  as  gibbets,  whrn 
travel  was  by  coach  and  highwaymen  were  many,  when  men  drank 
deep  and  played  high.  There,  are  plenty  of  stirring  scenes  along 
the  way,  plenty  of  treachery  and  fighting  at  cross-purposes  which 
lead  to  intricate  and  dramatic  situations.  The  heroine  proves 
herself  a  maid  of  spirit  through  all  the  mishaps  which  befall 
her." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

SHREWSBURY:   A   Romance   of   the   Time   of  William  and 
Mary 

With  24  Illustrations  by  Claude  A.  Shepperson.    $1.50  net. 

"Aside  from  the  story,  which  is  remarkably  well  told,  this 
book  is  of  value  for  its  fine  pen  pictures  of  William  of  Orange 
and  his  leading  courtiers  ...  a  story  of  absorbing  interest.  .  .  . 
Some  of  these  scenes  have  rarely  been  excelled  in  historical  fiction 
for  intensity  of  interest  Those  who  have  not  read  it  and  who 
are  fond  of  the  romance  of  adventure,  will  find  it  fulfils  Mr. 
Balfour's  recent  definition  of  the  ideal  novel — something  which 
makes  us  forget  for  the  time  all  worry  and  care,  and  transports 
us  to  another  and  more  picturesque  age." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

SOPHIA:  A  Romance  of  the  Time  of  George  II 
With  12  Illustrations  by  C.  Hammond.    $1.50  net. 

"A  decidedly  interesting  novel.  .  .  .  The  tale  moves  swiftly,  hurry- 
ing on  from  the  town  to  the  heath,  from  hatred  to  love,  from 
imprisonment  on  "bread  and  water  to  diamonds  .  .  .  and  a  dozen 
other  things.  Sophia,  the  heroine,  is  a  bundle  of  girlish  fool- 
ishness and  charms.  'Sophia,'  the  book,  is  a  bundle  of  more  or 
less  extraordinary  episodes  woven  into  a  story  in  the  most  beguil- 
ing manner." — New  York  Tribune. 

STARVECROW  FARM:  A  Romance 

With  eight   full-page  Illustrations.     $1.50  net. 

".  .  .  It  is  an  exciting  tale,  with  further  thrilling  episodes. 
Mr.  Weyman  has  used  his  narrative  gift  to  good  purpose  in  this 
book,  and  has  also  shown  all  his  old  skill  in  the  delineation  of 
character  ...  all  the  actors  in  the  present  volume  are  vividly 
set  forth.  Henrietta  is  an  engaging  young  woman;  Gypsy  Bess, 
her  rival,  is  delightfully  picturesque,  and  not  in  a  long  time  have 
we  met  so  likable  a  scold  as  Mrs.  Gilson,  who  presides  over  the 
inn  chosen  for  most  of  the  scenes." — New  York  Tribune. 

NEW  YORK:  LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO. 


NOVELS  BY  STANLEY  J.  WEYMAN 


COUNT   HANNIBAL:  A    Romance   of  the   Court  of   France 

With  Frontispiece.     $1.50  net. 

"It  is  seldom  that  one  runs  across  a  historical  novel  the  plot 
of  which  is  so  ably  sustained,  the  characters  so  strongly  drawn, 
the  local  color  or  atmosphere  so  satisfactory  ...  is  the  strongest 
and  most  interesting  novel  as  yet  written  by  this  popular  author." 
— Boston  Times. 

"What  is  the  use  of  hoping  for  a  decadence  of  the  craze  for 
historical  romances  so  long  as  the  public  is  fed  on  books  like 
this?  Such  a  story  has  zest  for  the  most  jaded  palate;  nay,  it 
can  hold  the  interest  even  of  a  book  reviewer.  From  the  first 
page  to  the  last  there  is  not  a  moment  when  one's  desire  to  finish 
the  book  weakens.  Along  with  the  ordinary  interest  of  curiosity 
there  goes  that  of  a  delightful  and  unique  love  story  involving  no 
little  skill  in  character  delineation." — Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

MY  LADY  ROTH  A:  A  Romance  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War 

With  eight   Illustrations.     $1.35   net. 

"In  every  way  his  greatest  and  most  artistic  production.  We 
know  of  nothing  more  fit,  both  in  conception  and  execution,  to  be 
classed  with  the  immortal  Waverleys.  ...  A  story  true  to  life 
and  true  to  the  times." — The  Advertiser,  Boston. 

".  .  .  differs  signally  from  Mr.  Weyman's  earlier  published 
works.  It  is  treated  with  the  minuteness  and  lovingness  of  a 
first  story  which  has  grown  up  in  the  mind  of  the  author  for 
years.  .  .  .  Marie  Wort  is  one  of  the  bravest  souls  that  ever 
moved  quietly  along  the  pages  of  a  novel.  She  is  so  unlike  the 
other  feminine  characters  whom  Weyman  has  drawn  that  the  dif- 
ference is  striking  and  adds  significance  to  this  one  book  ...  is 
full  of  fascinating  interest,  all  the  more  remarkable  in  a  work 
adhering  so  strictly  to  historical  truth." — Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

THE  STORY  OF  FRANCIS  CLUDDE 

With   four   Illustrations.     $1.35   net. 

"A  delightfully  told  and  exciting  tale  of  the  troublesome  times 
of  Bloody  Mary  in  England,  and  the  hero — every  inch  a  hero — 
was  an  important  actor  in  them." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"A  romance  of  fhe  olden  days,  full  of  fire  and  life,  wit!/ 
touches  here  and  there  of  love  and  politics.  .  .  .  We  have 
in  this  book  a  genuine  romance  of  Old  England,  in  which  soldiers, 
chancellors,  dukes,  priests,  and  high-born  dames  figure.  The  time 
is  the  period  of  the  war  with  Spain.  Knightly  deeds  abound.  The 
story  will  more  than  interest  the  reader;  it  will  charm  him." — 
Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

NEW  YORK:  LONGMANS,  GREEN  &  CO. 


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